Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders
by CaffeEspresso
Summary: AU Year 6. Takes place instead of the Half-Blood Prince. Novel-length story, sequel also planned for Year 7 , eventual H-Hr. EVENTUAL. PDF, EPUB formats available - see author profile .
1. Ch1v2: History In the Making

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _Some tiny bits of material also borrowed from: d20 system, the Forgotten Realms universe, and the Dragon Age universe.

**Important Author's Note I:** This story is supposed to take place instead of the Half-Blood Prince, and assumes that none of it happened. Therefore, certain parts (namely the early chapters) will sound very much the same as their corresponding chapters in HBP.

**Important Author's Note II:** To minimize ragequitters: _this story and its sequel will ultimately result in an H-Hr relationship, even if it does not seem that way for a long time._

**Author's Note (7 March 2011): **Rewrites and redactions have begun for Chapters 1-7._  
_

**Author's Note (20 November 2010):** PDF and EPUB versions of this story available! Check author profile for link. (Also, too lazy to update other author's notes to reflect this).

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter One v2

"History in the Making"

6 March 2011

FanFictionDotNet Edit

Original Version: 12 August 2009

"_By Virtue of the Power of Authority given by Her Majesty's Letters Patent under the Great Seal and by the Ministry of Magic for the Commonwealth of Nations, we do hereby Constitute and Appoint Gawain Robards to be a Captain of Aurors in Her Majesty's Auror Office from the Twenty-Fifth day of June, Nineteen Ninety-Six_ . . ."

— from the commissioning of Gawain Robards, 1996.

Colwyn Glen Cemoyth always thought himself very average as a young man, and was rather proud of it. He had determined, through his habits as a historian, that his entire life had been very average indeed. Always one to cover his bases, he had taken the time to organize a portfolio of evidence, in case he was ever challenged on this matter.

Col (the average nickname for a 'Colwyn') was the spitting image of his father, Glen Cemoyth. Honestly, this was not a difficult feat, since his father carried the Cemoyths' thick, curly black hair and blue eyes that seemed to pervade all ranks of their household.

His mother Rosamund Wilde was of Welsh descent, but born in London in the mid-1920s. Her family weathered the war defiantly in their home. They had been planning to rebuild the family eatery near Finsbury with Rosamund as the hostess, as she had the best figure of her siblings.

Much to their consternation, Rosamund ran away from home at the age of sixteen, and contact with her side of the family was about as diligent as a flobberworm in heat.

Not that any of the Cemoyths would claim to know anything about flobberworms, of course. You see, they were a family of Muggles, and proud of it. Not that they knew what the word Muggle meant anyhow, and Colwyn was determined to maintain his family's perfectly average appearance, following the death of his father.

His father had always insisted on Colwyn's success in his studies, like any other father. The Cemoyth family had a long-standing unspoken tradition of always having at least one family member working as a historian. Glen held that profession at the Royal Museum in Edinburgh, and Colwyn was on his way to succeed him.

Col finished primary and secondary school with top marks (_rather average for any serious student_, thought Colwyn), and was matriculated at the University of Oxford. He even held an average, sportive, and rather obligatory sibling rivalry with his year-older brother Donald, who attended the University of Cambridge (and whose nickname was, of course, Don). When Don died in a freak accident in 1979, Col mourned his passing as he saw was proper.

However, this was probably the point where Col would later be forced to demarcate the end of his life as an average man.

Gradually, the elder Glen Cemoyth faltered in what used to be his steady pace in life. It was easy for Colwyn to notice, because he had become entirely accustomed to his family's extremely normal behavior.

It was perfectly average for Glen to mourn when Rosamund Wilde Cemoyth died in an automobile accident. It was not, however, average for Glen to start casting furtive looks over his back in the wake of Don's death several years later. Col would have understood if his father had, for instance, gone into depression — after all, Don's passing meant the second death in the immediate family within a decade. The paranoia Glen had apparently developed did not sit well with Col's notion of an average life.

Using his excellent historian's instinct, Col narrowed down his father's recent activities in an attempt to find something — anything — that didn't quite click like it should. Eventually, it came down to the only three changes that had occurred in Glen's rigidly structured life.

Firstly, his father had switched toothpaste from the old Colgate brand to the new Aquafresh brand, which had recently debuted. While it was possible that his father was simply checking over his shoulder to see if the neighbors had noticed his new pearly white smile, Col doubted it.

Secondly, his father had developed arthritis. But Col didn't see how that would cause Glen to sneak glances at his surroundings, as if something were about to pounce. In fact, though he was not a medical professional, he was fairly certain that craning one's neck to look around corners was not a commonly prescribed method for treating the ache.

Finally, there was one day when Glen had been visited by his distant cousin, Etharn Cimoiod.

Glen hadn't known any relatives by the name Cimoiod up until that point in time. While he loved to study the trends and causes of events in history, genealogy was an entirely different beast he'd rather not perturb. He'd known that at some point, the Pictish Cimoiod family had become the Cemoyth family and given their allegiance to the Kingdom of Alba, which in turn became Scotland.

However, the only mention that he was actually connected to this distant family branch came when Col and Don were joining their father for dinner. They witnessed their father — who was a short, balding man — push the larger and well-built Etharn forcibly out the front door. After the door slammed in his face, Etharn stood on the porch for a moment before walking back to his rented automobile and driving away.

The brothers inquired of Etharn at dinner, but Glen would not tell them anything more than the fact that the Cimoiods and Cemoyths were once tied together many, many generations ago, and that they were to be regarded as the black sheep of the family.

Eventually, Colwyn realized that this was the only likely cause for his father's onset of paranoia, and he resolved to confront his father on the matter. Unfortunately, he would never be allowed the chance to do so, for his father died shortly after.

The coroner who examined Glen Cemoyth's body was the same coroner who had previously examined Donald Cemoyth's body. The coroner shared his extremely puzzled thoughts with an already distraught Colwyn, which was understandable, but unfortunate nonetheless. Glen and Donald had died in what seemed to be the exact same manner — both behind locked doors and with a rather surprised expression on their faces.

Apparently, the men of the Cemoyth family were not only inclined to be historians, but they also had a propensity to drop dead for absolutely no reason at all.

By this time, Colwyn Cemoyth was in his mid-thirties, and the loss of his loved ones finally caught up with him. He no longer had any family apart from the few relatives he'd known about: his mother's estranged family in London and his father's father, whom he had only met fleetingly. Over the years, he had also had a couple of failed romances to throw into the mix. Colwyn Cemoyth was very much alone, and also very much afraid of dying without warning. He began to adopt his father's habit of checking around corners.

The one thing that probably saved Colwyn from going through a mid-life crisis was the fact that he had been able to find employ as a historian at the Royal Museum, like his father before him. It comforted him to know that at least there was still one Cemoyth carrying on the family's long-standing tradition, though he did not know why.

The answer came in the form of a loud rap on his front door almost a decade later, on one warm June evening in 1996 while Colwyn was busy making himself tea.

Colwyn, now in his mid-forties, still lived alone, and still worked at the Royal Museum in Edinburgh. His black hair was still curly and thick, but his face was beginning to show the lines of his frequent worry. He had gained a little weight while still trying to remain in shape, resulting in a figure halfway between pudgy and stocky. He tried very hard to be good-natured to the people he knew, but always checked his corners.

He had traded in his average nature for a cautious demeanor and almost tip-toed to the door. He opened it and was greeted by a pair of men who would finally erase all hope of being average from his life.

"H — hello?" he managed to stammer.

"Cemoyth," grunted a tall, long haired man, who extended a blue-tattooed arm in greeting. "Apullius, the Druid. Cimoiod, the Secret-Keeper," he added, pointing to Etharn, who stood beside him.

Colwyn's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak.

"Thanks Apullius," said Etharn, patting his shoulder. "Forgive the intrusion Colwyn, but would you mind very much if we conversed for a while? We are cousins, you see, and it is urgent that we speak of family matters."

In spite of himself, Colwyn decided that he liked Etharn. He spoke with a confident air, and his voice soothed Col's nerves. He was slightly shorter than Apullius, and tattoo-free. He was also not a "druid," whatever that was.

"Please — come in," said Col, stepping aside. He led them into the parlor, and went to fetch tea. All the while, his heart was racing. Here was a man whom his father had pushed out of his own house, accompanied by a tall stranger with tattoos all over his arm. He suddenly wondered what had ever possessed him to allow them into his house in the first place. Curiosity? Maybe. Col had always been a truth-seeker — it is what made him rather successful in his research. Etharn presented himself as a nice fellow, and Colwyn had never met anybody from his extended family before.

Unfortunately, he also bore good habits as an analyst and mild skeptic, and he was finding it difficult not to snort at his distant cousin's story. The only thing that kept him from bursting out in disbelieving laughter was the sight of Apullius, tall and stoic, sitting on the couch opposite him and staring into space with a very grim expression on his face.

But really, giants? Secret-Keepers? And what on earth was a Muggle?

"Non-magical folk, like you and me," explained Etharn.

"Hold on, _Magic_? You came all the way from goodness knows where to tell me about some fairy tale?"

Etharn looked mightily concerned.

"You aren't going to throw us out like your father did, are you?"

"Oh no," Col replied, shaking his head. "I appreciate the entertainment. But I thought you came here for an urgent matter, not to share tall tales. I have some ghost stories about Northumberland that'll curl your hair, once you're done with yours."

Etharn looked confused for a moment, before realizing that Col was being facetious.

"Colwyn — "

"Call me Col, please. Everybody in our family does."

"Col," Etharn amended, "I'd heard from my father that our families never quite saw eye-to-eye ever since the Middle Ages. But I assure you, every word I've said is true. Our side of the family, the Cimoiods, is an old Muggle Secret-Keeping family — and I'm the last of them. We're about to die out."

Col put his teacup down and leaned back into his chair.

"My condolences, Etharn, but what does this have to do with your whole" — Col waved his fingers in the air for effect — "magical fairy tale?"

Etharn was nonplussed.

"I have a duty to make sure that the secrets we keep are passed on. Since you are the nearest living relative — "

"I get to listen to your story, and tell it to someone before I die. Right."

Etharn looked surprised for a moment, and then quite pleased that his cousin had picked up on his task so quickly. Glen had simply stared at them for a while before chasing them out.

"Why yes, yes that is what you must do."

Col rolled his eyes.

"Shall I fetch myself a notepad?"

"Oh no, no," said Etharn, standing. Apullius rose as well, so Col followed suit.

"These secrets are not to be passed down under the written word."

Col jumped, for it was the first time Apullius had said anything since his introduction on the porch. His voice was lower than one would expect from even a man of his size, and it made the walls reverberate when he spoke at volume.

"What — "

"Not to worry," said Etharn cheerfully. "The secrets are passed down through a clever bit of Blood Magic. They will be given directly to your memory when I die."

"Wh — Blood? Magic?"

"Col, listen to me," said Etharn, turning serious. "I realize that you don't _actually_ believe a word of what I said. However, I beg you to remember what I've said. When I die, you will become aware of the family secrets."

"You haven't told me _how_ I will become aware of them — "

"Not important. You'll find out. You must remember that the only people who you are to divulge any information to are those who are loyal to Rowena of the Hogwarts School."

"Now hang on just one minute," blustered Col. "You haven't told me anything. How can you simply come to my house, tell me all of this rubbish, and then expect me to take you seriously? And if this is a family matter, why are you here, Apullius?"

Ethan and Apullius had been turning to leave, but Ethan turned back towards him.

"I am truly sorry, cousin. I know how this feels for you, because this is exactly how my father explained it to me. I cannot tell you more in person; but when I die, the whole story" — he tapped the side of his head with a finger — "will become yours."

"Why do you keep referring to your death as though it will be before mine? You're younger than I am, for goodness' sake. Is someone out to kill you?"

Etharn smiled. It was a very sad smile, and Col was taken aback by its weight. He turned back towards Apullius. The self-proclaimed druid put a large hand on Etharn's shoulder, and before Col could step forward to seize his cousin's arm, there was a soft _pop!_

They had vanished into thin air.

* * *

Over three hundred miles to the south, a tall man with a lion's mane emerged from a small eatery owned by the Wilde family. His hair was thick, golden brown, and flared out handsomely. Though it was beginning to show whisps of silvery gray, the signs of age simply contributed to the aura of power he exuded. His golden yellow eyes and bushy eyebrows added to his likeness to the king of wild cats. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a fierce fight earlier in his years.

He was Rufus Scrimgeour, previously the Head of the Auror Office, and recently appointed Minister for Magic of the United Kingdom. He was also late.

Briskly walking to a nearby alleyway and rounding the corner, Scrimgeour pulled out his wand and Apparated mid-stride with a sharp _crack_, reappearing in his office while still walking. He strode over to his desk and hurriedly scribbled a few more lines onto the parchment he'd been working on before his lunch break.

The small portrait behind his desk of an ugly little man wearing a long, curly silver wig cleared its throat.

"Just finishing this letter," said Scrimgeour. "Tell them I'll be there in a moment."

The man in the portrait left. Scrimgeour cursed under his breath. He had been busier than he had ever been in his life, and it had only been three days since his appointment to Minister. Even before that, he had been busy preparing the Auror Office with its transition from peacetime policing and investigative duties to its original function as a combat operations unit.

For the Aurors, the situation looked grim. With He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on the rise once again, the magical community needed to put its best foot forward in its own defense. That foot was the Auror Office, and it was tiny. There hadn't been a single new Auror since Nymphadora Tonks in 1993, and several had died or disappeared in the past years.

That put the remaining number of Aurors at roughly thirty. Ten of those were overseas: three somewhere in Persia, two along the border of Pakistan and India, two in training exercises with the Australian Aurors, and the remaining three were presumably in Eastern Europe, but had since gone missing.

Scrimgeour scowled. The Americans wouldn't have had this problem, the damn war-mongers. They always kept a full Auror Corps, which he looked upon with disdain. In his opinion, their training was never up to par with his Auror Office, but at the rate he was losing men, he might not have a choice but to ask the American Commandant for a provisional force.

Now as Minister, Scrimgeour had to wage a war on the political front as well. The followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been targeting highly visible targets since his public appearance in the Ministry itself.

One of the targets was his old boss, Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Auror Office was perfectly capable of operating with little to no contact with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It only worked under the Department in peacetime, due to the closely related nature of their missions.

The transition to the wartime independence of the Auror Office had been symbolized by the reinstatement of a Captain of Aurors, the office now held by Gawain Robards.

With the loss of Commissioner Bones, the Law Enforcement Offices were in chaos for a few hours before Pius Thicknesse was appointed to the position. The Improper Use of Magic Office and Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office were the least affected by the chaos, but the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol was out of action long enough for cases to accumulate, and the patrol wizards were still trying to play catch-up.

Then they had lost Emmeline Vance, a well-known ambassador in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. She was a celebrated writer and had often written columns appearing in the _Daily Prophet_, regarding the affairs of the International Confederation of Wizards. It was Scrimgeour's opinion that this was what had brought about her death — she had recently been rallying the support of her readers to petition the Confederation members to create legislation to protect Muggle-born witches and wizards.

Of course, the most surprising thing to Scrimgeour about the whole affair was the fact that the _Prophet_ had actually printed the latest edition of Vance's column, as the editor of the _Prophet_ was known to be a proud pureblood. His instincts had kicked in and he grew to suspect that the editor had allowed Vance's column to be printed in order to allow Vance to put herself in danger. Before he could investigate further, he had been promoted to Minister, and the editor had gone missing as well.

The letter that Scrimgeour was writing at the moment was the third in a series of petitions to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Like Minister Cornelius Fudge before him, Scrimgeour sought the services of one Harry Potter — the only person known to survive the wrath of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — in order to raise public support of the Ministry.

The Ministry of Magic was losing footing left and right due to the disappearances and acts of violence. A few days prior, an explosion had destroyed the Brockdale Bridge, killing Muggles and wizards alike. Muggle newspapers attributed the explosion to the largest bombing yet by the Irish Provisional Republican Army. The magical community knew that it had been the work of the Death Eaters, followers of the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, et cetera, et cetera.

If that had not been trouble enough, a large-scale assault occurred in Wales, and this time there had been evidence that giants were involved. Trees were uprooted, houses destroyed, and a large swath of country land wasted. Teams of Obliviators were working around the clock, and the magical community was, for a while, dangerously close to exposure.

It was only his second day as Minister when Scrimgeour had approved the arrests of several innocent people as Death Eaters. It brought a bad taste to his mouth, but public support for the Ministry seemed to have reached its tipping point, and the Ministry needed to show itself capable of some sort of action, and quickly.

To have Harry Potter as a figurehead would mean that people could rally to the Ministry under his name, and that meant that they stood a chance against the Dark Lord. But to do that, apparently, he needed Dumbledore's approval.

Quickly scratching 'Albus Dumbledore' onto the envelope with his quill, he turned back to the portrait of the man with the wig.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic," he incanted. It was a very silly protocol, in his opinion, especially since Fudge was already there with him.

After affixing a wax seal, he attached the letter to the leg of a tawny owl at the window, and stepped into the fire at the same time that the portrait came alive to tell him that his request had been granted.

The Prime Minister of Muggles was reserved in appearance. He was balding, and all of his hair was grey, but neatly combed. He wore glasses with a thick black rim. Scrimgeour had seen his face on campaign posters before with a calming and friendly smile, and standing upon, of all things, an upturned soapbox. However, the Prime Minister's face today was full of lines and worry, and there was a definite look of fear in his eyes.

"How do you do?" asked the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

"Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic," said Scrimgeour, taking the hand briefly. As he did this, he looked around the Prime Minister's office, wordlessly casting an analytical spell he had often used as an Auror. There were four windows, each heavily enchanted with curse-wards and silencing spells. The aura of the silencing spells disappeared between the windows, but Scrimgeour could sense them through the masonry. Of the portraits on the walls, three were affixed with Permanent Sticking Charms, one of which was another portrait of the man with the silver wig.

The walls themselves were protected in the same manner as the windows, but the door was unlocked. Scrimgeour slid his wand out of his sleeve and pointed it at the keyhole. They heard the lock click.

"Fudge told you everything?" he asked the Prime Minister, still scanning the room.

"Er — yes," said the Prime Minister. "And if you don't mind, I'd prefer that the door remained unlocked."

"I'd rather not be interrupted," said Scrimgeour shortly, "or watched." He pointed at the windows and the curtains fell from their hangings to cover them.

"Wait, before you got here," the Prime Minister said, clearing his throat, "Fudge said something about Dementors attacking people . . ."

"I'm afraid it's true, Prime Minister," said Fudge, weariness apparent in his voice. "They abandoned Azkaban a week ago and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't a blow."

"Yes," Scrimgeour sighed. "Fudge and I had to redirect patrol wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and two Aurors to cover for them. Out of maybe two hundred, there were five Dementors who remained at their posts in Azkaban, but surely you understand that we don't exactly trust them to perform above and beyond the call of duty."

"But," sputtered the Prime Minister, with fear in his voice, "didn't you tell me that they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people? And suck out their souls?"

"That's right," said Scrimgeour, motioning towards the chairs around the Prime Minister's desk. "And they're breeding now. We have no idea how, though. It's been a subject of continuing debate, whether or not Dementors are asexual."

The Prime Minister sank into his large leather office chair, looking quite pale.

Scrimgeour and Fudge took seats opposite him.

"Apologies, Prime Minister," began Scrimgeour. "As you can imagine, I am extremely busy these days. Let's get down to business. Firstly, your security."

"I am perfectly happy with the security of my office — " said the Prime Minister, sitting up.

"Well, we're not," Scrimgeour growled. "It will not end well for your Muggles, if their Prime Minister is successfully Imperiused. The secretary in your outer office — "

"I'm not sacking Shacklebolt, if that's what you're asking!" said the Prime Minister in a fiercely defensive voice. "He's probably the best person I've got on my staff. Highly efficient, gets work done twice as fast as anyone else — "

"Because he's a wizard," finished Scrimgeour. The Prime Minister looked surprised. "He is an Auror — Company Commander, Lieutenant Kingsley Shacklebolt. I supervised his final training exercise and qualifying examination myself. When Fudge requested an Auror for your protection, I recommended him."

"Now wait a moment! You can't decide who works on my staff — " blustered the Prime Minister.

"I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt," said Scrimgeour, without a trace of a smile on his face.

"I am — "

"Then there is no problem, correct?"

"I . . . well, as long as Shacklebolt continues to perform at his standards . . ." began the Prime Minister, but Scrimgeour didn't let him finish.

"The next order of business is that man, your Junior Minister."

The Prime Minister looked affronted.

"Chorley is just suffering from stress; surely all he needs is a bit of a vacation."

"Prime Minister, he was quacking like a duck in the middle of a crowded Muggle street," Scrimgeour reminded him bluntly. "He is suffering from the effects of a botched Imperius Curse. We will be taking him to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, so that our Healers can monitor his recovery."

"Er, what — but . . . Will he be okay?" asked the Prime Minister.

Scrimgeour shrugged and Fudge looked apprehensive.

"At any rate, one more thing Prime Minister: I'm currently faced with a dwindling number of Aurors," said Scrimgeour gravely.

"Er — Aurors, they are your special forces teams, correct?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Scrimgeour, nodding. "They are our primary defense against dark wizards. Back when times of war were more frequent, they were usually the spearhead of our forces, like your Royal Marines are today."

The Prime Minister nodded his head proudly. Then a look of concern washed over his face.

"When you say 'dwindling number,' how many are — "

"About twenty."

The Prime Minister's eyes widened and looked like they were going to pop out of his head.

"You only have _twenty_ people?"

For the first time since Scrimgeour had entered the office, the Prime Minister saw a look of worry flash across the lion-haired man's face.

"Well, also have ten overseas, but some are missing and I'm not sure when I will be able to call the rest back," said Scrimgeour with a distant look on his face. "During the last war against the Dark Lord, we had about two hundred Aurors. Half of them were killed in action, and then a good number called it quits after the war, and recently a handful has disappeared."

"We also have the patrol witches and wizards," added Fudge, "but in terms of combat, those are simply men and women who received a passing N.E.W.T. in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Their job is to enforce laws, not to wage wars."

"I — " said the Prime Minister, looking aghast. "Why are you telling me? I can't just go up to the Royal Marines and — "

Scrimgeour looked surprised and then laughed with a slightly bitter undertone.

"No, no, you misunderstand me, Prime Minister. I'd rather not involve the Muggle military if I don't have to. The last time anything like that happened was during the war against Grindelwald, and the casualties were atrociously high."

"Grindelwald?" asked the Prime Minister, confused.

"Er — the Muggle theater of war was referred to as the Second World War, I believe," supplied Fudge.

The Prime Minister's mouth formed a small 'o' of realization.

"Anyhow," continued Scrimgeour, "protocol requires me to inform you that we are considering asking for direct support from the International Confederation of Wizards. I hope it does not come to that. And no — " he amended, for the Prime Minister had begun to voice his concern. "This wouldn't require you to take action with the leaders of other Muggle nations. In other countries as well, the magical community and the Muggle community remain fairly separate in politics."

"Though," Fudge chipped in, "we're not sure if we will receive any assistance in the near future. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been stirring up trouble all over the world. I understand that the Bulgarian Minister for Magic is having a hard time suppressing several vampire uprisings."

At the word 'vampire,' the Prime Minister had gone even paler.

"If we ask for any outside help, the most likely to respond would be the Americans and the French. Personally, I'd like to see us recruiting straight out of Hogwarts — "

"And a fat lot of good that would do us!" growled Scrimgeour dangerously. "As I recall, Fudge, you spent the last academic year _refusing_ to train the students at Hogwarts in combat."

"I — but . . . well," Fudge looked extremely flustered. The Prime Minister narrowed his eyes and began to speak, but Scrimgeour continued.

"Fudge here intentionally refused to allow the students last year to practice defensive spells, out of fear that the headmaster of the school was raising an army to overthrow him." Scrimgeour looked positively murderous.

"And it would have done us a world of good if he had! While I was still the Head of the Auror Office, the headmaster told me he was developing a special program this year to compensate for the lack of training, but until the first batch of students finishes it, we have no rising candidates for the Auror Office."

The Prime Minister mulled this over in his head. Scrimgeour and Fudge stood up to leave.

"Well, that's all the business we have for today, Prime Minister."

"Wait," said the Prime Minister. "Is — I'd appreciate if we could keep in contact. Is there some way I can reach you?"

Fudge and Scrimgeour exchanged looks. In the past, the Prime Minister of Muggles and the Minister for Magic had only maintained tenuous relations, required by protocol. They'd never heard of a Prime Minister _asking_ to keep in touch before.

"I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister," Scrimgeour replied. "If I am too busy, I shall send Fudge here. He is on my staff as an advisor. If you need to reach us, just ask one of these portraits." He pointed with his wand to the three portraits that had been permanently stuck to the walls, which glowed each in turn.

With that, the two wizards bid the Prime Minister of Muggles a good day, and stepped into the fire.

* * *

**Important Author's Note: Scroll to the top and read Author's Notes I and II, if you didn't. **

**About this story: **Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders and its sequel take place after Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. They are meant to be read in place of Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders is planned to take place in two parts, with sixteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

PDF and EPUB formats available through a link in the author profile.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Ch2v2: Dumbledore's Plan

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. Some tiny bits of material also borrowed from: d20 system, the Forgotten Realms universe, and the Dragon Age universe.

**Author's Note:** To reiterate, this chapter will sound very much like its corresponding chapter in HBP, because some things simply need to happen.

**Author's Note (7 March 2011): **Last Will and Testament of Sirius revised to reflect his friendship with Nymphadora Tonks. (Not really developed in canon, but is more emphasized in this AU.)

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Two v2

"Dumbledore's Plan"

7 March 2011

FanFictionDotNet Edit

Original Version: 14 August 2009

"_To my cousin Nymphadora Tonks, I leave my wand, the dueling equipment of Arcturus Black III to include: pauldrons, brigandine, and greaves, the sum of one hundred thousand Galleons _. . ."

— from the Last Will and Testament of Sirius Black III, 3 March 1996.

Harry Potter was not in a very good mood. In fact, he wasn't in much of a mood at all. At the moment, he was lying face down on top of his bed in the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive. The bed was littered with newspaper pages and a number of textbooks that had, once upon a time, been neatly stacked. They had since been knocked over, spilling across the bed. Harry, uncaring, had sprawled out on top of the whole smorgasbord.

His room, likewise, was in a state of disarray, due to Harry's recent onset of apathy. The floor, like his bed, had its share of _Daily Prophet_ pages scattered about. They were accompanied by a goodly sized collection of food wrappers, used napkins, and even a few half-eaten sweets.

Upon his desk stood a large circular cage, which housed Hedwig the snowy owl. Owl feathers littered the short distance between her cage and the window, but at least her master had made the effort to keep the bottom of her cage clean. For this, Hedwig was eternally grateful.

All the same, every time he let her in through the window, she would cast a critical eye about his room and give a disapproving hoot, to which he would reply, "I know, I'll clean it later."

Wizards and witches have long debated whether or not certain animals can read. It was discovered that Kneazles could understand short written sentences and that cats could comprehend individual words (but did not care about reading). Dogs on the other hand could not distinguish between letters. Xenophilius Lovegood, the editor of the peculiar _Quibbler_ magazine, had postulated that Crumple-Horned Snorkacks might be able to understand short spoken phrases, but not written ones.

Whether or not owls could read and comprehend full paragraphs was still an often contested subject. However, that did not stop Hedwig from curiously examining the front page of the issue of the _Daily Prophet_ upon which her cage was resting.

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE

30 JUNE 1996, LONDON—Ministry reports have failed to quash rumors regarding the mysterious incident at the Ministry of Magic earlier this month.

In a recent press conference, Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour assured _Daily Prophet_ reporters that steps have been taken in order to combat the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ever since his sighting in the Atrium of the Ministry itself. The Minister refused to comment on the details of the disturbance.

However, highly ranked officials in the Minister's staff have confirmed that the disturbance took place in the Hall of Prophecy, a top-secret location deep within the Department of Mysteries, the existence of which has been long-denied by the Ministry.

Though little is known about the incident, rumor has it among a large portion of the Wizarding community that the Death Eaters captured during the conflict were attempting to steal a prophecy. The subject of the prophecy is up for debate, but a strong majority believes that it concerns Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who is known to have been one of the combatants during the incident. Some are going so far as to call Potter "the Chosen One," believing that the prophecy concerns an upcoming climactic duel between him and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Spokeswizards for the (_continued on page A-7_)

The main story on the front page was a rather long-winded article preceded by the large black-and-white picture of a man whose hair resembled a lion's mane. His picture did not move very much. It simply blinked sternly back at the reader.

The article detailed a press conference recently given by Minister Scrimgeour regarding the safety of students who chose to continue education at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For safety reasons, the paper read, the Minister would not go into detail regarding his plans, apart from confirming that an Auror task force would be assigned to patrol the school grounds at all times.

If Hedwig had indeed been able to read, she would not have been able to finish the article anyway, as her cage covered its latter half.

Harry's school trunk stood open in the gap between his desk and the window. He hadn't really bothered to unpack it properly, and had simply been living out of the trunk's contents, retrieving items as needed. As it turned out, his trunk now looked like it had spewed out its contents slowly into some kind of creep advancing on the rest of the room.

The reason for Harry's onset of apathy was the lingering feeling that he had been responsible for the death of his godfather Sirius Black during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries — the 'incident' mentioned by the June 30th issue of the _Daily Prophet_. Though he had discussed the subject with Dumbledore before returning to the Dursleys' for the summer holiday, the feeling of guilt had not completely vanished. Nor had the feelings of anger, sadness, or fear.

By the second week of the summer holiday, Harry had decided that it was easier to simply not concentrate on any of those emotions at all, or rather, to simply not care. He figured that Professor Snape, who had attempted to teach Harry the art of Occlumency the past year, would have been proud.

Harry rolled over and half of the spellbooks on his bed toppled off. His hand was still clenched around the letter had removed a few days prior from the leg of a small barn owl. It read:

_Dear Harry,_

_I shall be visiting upon you this coming Friday at Number Four, Privet Drive at precisely eleven o'clock in the evening to discuss the recently reviewed last will and testament of Sirius Black._

_Afterwards, if you wish, you may accompany me to the Burrow, where you are cordially invited to spend the remainder of your summer holiday._

_If it is convenient for you, I would also be glad of your company on a short stop on the way to the Burrow, in order to discuss several important matters._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Harry had no idea why Dumbledore would want to discuss any matter with him, let alone something important. The last time he had conversed with Dumbledore, it was hardly on civil terms. It was with much embarrassment that Harry recalled his last meeting with Dumbledore. He had shouted at the old wizard, accused him of being uncaring, and thrown quite a few of Dumbledore's more expensive-looking knick-knacks against the stone walls of the Headmaster's Office.

In the end, Dumbledore had confessed to caring too much about Harry (an admission which made Harry feel slightly chastised for his previous tantrum), and showed him a record of the prophecy that Voldemort's Death Eaters had been attempting to steal.

_Neither can live while the other survives, _it said. Harry had mulled over the prophecy ever since he departed from school. Dumbledore had confirmed that it meant that Harry had to kill Voldemort, in the end, or be killed himself.

_Murder_, thought Harry, _that's what it comes down to . . ._

Harry had sent the school owl back to Dumbledore with 'yes' scrawled onto a small piece of parchment. However, he had not finished repacking his trunk. For seemingly no reason at all, he found it hard to believe that Dumbledore would actually be present at Privet Drive, let alone call on him, Harry, who had been close to yelling obscenities at him the last time they had met. Coupled with the apathetic demeanor that he had developed in the past few weeks, he hadn't the heart to really do anything.

At five minutes until eleven, all of the streetlights on Privet Drive were extinguished simultaneously. Hedwig, feeling that it was important that her master should know about this disturbance, gave a shrill hoot in the hopes of waking him up.

Harry groaned and raised his head off of the pages of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five_ and looked at the digital clock on his desk beside Hedwig's cage. Suddenly, his meticulously-constructed Wall of Apathy came crumbling down to be replaced by a wave of panic. He leapt out of bed, scattering the remaining books on the floor, and switched his lamp on. Then, he began throwing everything in his room into his trunk, not even considering the possibility of cleaning the newspapers off of the floor.

It was fortunate that Harry did not have many material possessions. He had given his old spellbooks except from his fifth year to Ginny Weasley. His textbooks from last year had been on his bed and were now on the floor — these, he threw unceremoniously into the trunk. He was down to one good quill.

The majority of his clothes stood in 'clean' and 'dirty' piles at the foot of his bed, which he scooped up in his arms and dumped into the trunk as well, which expanded downwards in order to accommodate the load. Thank Merlin for magic.

His Firebolt was already wrapped in his collection of school robes-he hadn't bothered to take it out once he left school. He replaced this bundle on top of everything and slammed the trunk shut as the doorbell rang downstairs.

Harry smacked his forehead with his palm. It had slipped his mind to tell the Dursleys that Dumbledore would be ringing their doorbell at this time of night. Actually, no, that wasn't quite right. He hadn't quite forgotten. He simply hadn't cared enough to tell them. Or he hadn't cared enough to remember to tell them. One way or the other, the Dursleys would be opening the door to find a wizard — one of their least favorite people on the planet — on their doorstep.

He bolted out of his room and actually turned too early, nearly colliding with the banister as he raced for the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he was greeted with exactly the sight he had been expecting.

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking old. He was clothed in a long, bright purple wizard's robe and a matching hat. Opposite him was Vernon Dursley, wearing the exact same shade of purple bathrobe. The difference was that his face was growing equally purple in anger, and his mouth was slightly open, but no sound was coming from it.

Dumbledore smiled serenely.

"I don't suppose that Harry has warned you that I would be arriving tonight, then?" he asked, amusedly.

Vernon Dursley sputtered, trying to find words. Presumably, he was trying to say several things at the same time. For instance, 'what the ruddy hell are one of _you people_ doing here?' or perhaps, 'it's not _decent_ to call at eleven o'clock at night.'

Eventually, he settled for stammering, "N — NO!"

At this point, Petunia and Dudley Dursley appeared in the entrance hall, with identical looks of apprehension and fear.

"Let him in and be quick about it — before the neighbors see!" Petunia managed to squeak, upon seeing Dumbledore in the doorway.

That seemed to be the extent of the Dursleys' vocabulary for the moment, because not one of them said a thing as Dumbledore entered, and Vernon closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Harry," said Dumbledore, removing his hat. "I hope your holiday has been agreeable so far?"

Harry, still coming to grips with the reality that Dumbledore was here at his uncle's house, nodded hesitantly.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Ah, hello Petunia. Albus Dumbledore. I believe we have corresponded by owl."

Though it had been more a one-way correspondence than anything, Petunia nodded shakily.

"And this must be Dudley?"

Dudley gave a small, frightened squeak that was not becoming of a boy his size, and ran off into the living room.

"Shall we retire to your sitting room, then?" asked Dumbledore. Wordlessly, Petunia nodded.

"Just — just wait one moment!" Vernon exclaimed, still beside the door. "Why are you here? Who do you think you are, inviting yourself into my house?"

Dumbledore turned to him, and Harry could have sworn that Vernon deflated a little bit under the headmaster's gaze.

"As I recall, your wife was kind enough to invite me into your home. As for my purpose, I am here to escort Harry to another location, where he will be spending the remainder of the summer. However, there is one matter I would like to discuss with at least one witness present — preferably somebody related to Harry. Therefore, we will intrude upon you for only a few more minutes."

The prospect of seeing Harry leave his door after only a few weeks seemed to placate Vernon. His mouth working itself behind his gigantic mustache, he followed the rest of them into the sitting room.

Dumbledore took a seat in an armchair beside the fireplace. The Dursleys sat in the couch opposite him, squeezing close together as though it would offer them additional protection. They squeezed even tighter when Dumbledore drew his wand, but he simply pointed it at the windows to close the curtains.

As Dumbledore waved his wand, Harry noticed that his hand was heavily bandaged, and that he held his wand gingerly with only his two forward fingers and his thumb.

"Sir, your hand —" he began, but Dumbledore interrupted him.

"Later, Harry. Please sit with us."

Harry sat down on the remaining chair.

"Now, I have come to inform you, Harry, of the terms of Sirius's will."

At this, Vernon narrowed his eyes.

"He's dead? His godfather?" he asked. He accentuated the word 'his' by pointing at Harry, as though he were some bystander.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, not taking his eyes off Harry. "In his will, he left almost everything he owned to you, Harry. He also set aside some of his belongings to pass on to Nymphadora Tonks. However, ownership of the Black family vault at Gringotts has been transferred to you, as well as nearly all of Sirius's worldly possessions. If you wish to see the exact notation of his will, I can forward you a copy. However, there is a complication."

"What's that, sir?" asked Harry, now curious.

"Sirius also left you Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," began Dumbledore, but he was interrupted.

"He's been left a _house_?" said Vernon, his eyes glinting. "Then why is he still here? He should be _gone_!"

"The _problem_," Dumbledore continued, "is that the ownership of the house did not obey Sirius's will."

This was perfectly fine with Harry. He had been dreading the thought of setting foot in the Black family house again. The thought of returning to the place where Sirius had spent his final days, desperately seeking an excuse to leave (and leaving to go to his death, once Harry had provided the excuse), would have been too much to handle. Still, he was curious.

"Why's that, sir?" he asked.

"It seems the house was bound by a bit of old and clever Blood Magic to pass only to members of the Black family, as long as they survived. Sirius was the last of the directly descended male line, as his brother, Regulus, has also passed away, and neither of them had children. The house therefore passed to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives — Bellatrix Lestrange."

"No," Harry breathed. His curiosity was replaced by a wave of anger at the thought of Bellatrix Lestrange, who had killed Sirius, now living in the house he had previously owned.

"I'm afraid that is the case, Harry," said Dumbledore, nodding gravely. "Fortunately, the Order has been able to avoid a terrible disaster."

For a moment, Harry wore a perplexed look on his face, and then he came to a realization.

"Kreacher!"

Sirius's old house elf would have known all about the Order of the Phoenix, from sneaking around the house all the time, intruding on their meetings —

Dumbledore was taken aback, but then seemed pleased that Harry had come to that conclusion almost at once.

"Yes Harry, the House-Elf Kreacher would have been passed on to Bellatrix Lestrange as well. However, I did say that Sirius left _almost_ everything to you. Apart from the portion he willed to Nymphadora Tonks, the one exception in his will was Kreacher, whom he willed to Hogwarts. It would seem," said Dumbledore in a highly amused tone, "that Sirius knew that you would not particularly enjoy keeping his company."

For the first time that summer, Harry grinned. The mention of his godfather since his death had usually brought on a pang of guilt and the weight of sadness would descend upon his chest, but the thought of Sirius being so . . . well, _Sirius — _it brought nothing but thoughts of fondness for his deceased friend and godfather.

Dumbledore continued, "The material possessions belonging to Sirius have since been moved from Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, to the Black family vault at Gringotts. In order to expand the vault to accommodate these possessions, a sum of five thousand galleons has been deducted from the Black family fortune."

At the word 'fortune,' Vernon's eyes grew wide.

"He has _money—_?" he began, but he went unheeded.

"Sir, what is . . . Blood Magic?" asked Harry, his curiosity returning.

Dumbledore seemed as though he knew this question were coming.

"It is a very old branch of magic," he said. "In recent centuries, it has unfortunately become rather taboo in the mainstream community."

At this, Vernon gave a snort which could only be a reminder that he thought that _all_ magic should be considered taboo.

"If you recall, I informed you at the end of last term that your mother's blood, present in your Aunt, gives you protection as long as you can call her house your home."

There was a small squeak of surprise, and everybody turned to look at Petunia. It was apparent on her face that she was mortified at the thought of magic having anything to do with _her_ blood.

"That, Harry," finished Dumbledore, "is an application of Blood Magic."

There was a moment of profound silence, while Vernon seemed lost for words, Petunia was too frightened for words, and Dudley simply seemed too stupid for words.

"Well then, Harry, now that we have finished with business here, let us be off!" said Dumbledore, cheerfully breaking the silence.

Harry ran to his bedroom to fetch Hedwig and his trunk. By the time he returned downstairs, Dumbledore was standing in the doorway once more, while the Dursleys remained on the opposite end of the entrance hall, still wordless.

"Until we meet again!" said Dumbledore, bowing to the Dursleys. Then, he strode off in the direction of the street.

"Bye, then," muttered Harry hastily to the Dursleys, who looked positively petrified at the thought of ever seeing Dumbledore a second time, and carried Hedwig and his trunk out to the street as well, closing the door behind him.

As Harry arrived next to him, Dumbledore extracted his wand from his robes again with his bandaged hand.

"I shall send these ahead to the Burrow, if you have no objections," he said.

Harry nodded his go-ahead, and with a wave of Dumbledore's wand, his trunk and Hedwig vanished.

"Sir," asked Harry, looking back at Dumbledore, "where are we going?"

"Coffee!" said Dumbledore brightly, as though it were the most brilliant idea he'd ever had. "You have not learned how to Apparate, I take it."

"No," said Harry, "Don't you have to be seventeen to take the test, anyway?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Therefore, I will be taking you via Side-Along Apparition. You will need to hold my arm very tightly — the other one, if you please." Harry had reached for Dumbledore's wand arm, having forgotten about the bandages. He moved to Dumbledore's left side and gripped his forearm.

"Now, don't let go!" said Dumbledore, and Harry gripped tighter. Suddenly, his world went black, and he suddenly felt very constricted. It felt oddly like somebody was forcing him through a pipe that was much too small, and he could not breathe, the air was being forced out of his lungs —

Finally, he felt the warm June air tickle his nose again, and he gratefully inhaled a lungful. Looking around, he recognized that he and Dumbledore were no longer in Privet Drive, but on a nearly empty street, across from what appeared to be a late-night diner.

"How do you feel?" asked Dumbledore. "It took me quite a while to adjust to the sensation of Apparating."

"I'm fine," Harry replied. He let go of Dumbledore's arm and put his hand to his head. "I think I prefer flying."

With a chuckle, Dumbledore began leading the way towards the diner.

The diner turned out to be a Muggle establishment. Dumbledore pushed open the glass door, which bore a green and orange neon sign declaring that it was open. As they entered, the few heads in the diner turned when they saw Dumbledore in his purple robes and hat.

They ordered coffee from the single waitress who had seated them in their booth — a small, plump woman wearing an apron and a weary look on her face. After she brought it to them, Dumbledore surreptitiously cast a Silencing Charm around their booth with his wand from under his robe.

Harry had had coffee before on several occasions, but it had always been prepared for him, and he found it much too sweet. He refrained from putting sugar into his cup, and found that its bitter taste was more palatable, but he was still pretty sure that he preferred tea. Setting it down, he looked up at Dumbledore, who was stirring sugar into his cup.

"Sir," he began, "did we come here for anything in particular?"

"I wanted a word with you before you returned to school," explained Dumbledore, taking a sip of his coffee. "How have you been coping, since the attack on the Ministry?"

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. He had known this was coming, one way or another. He did not particularly want to discuss Sirius, but he knew it was inevitable. He fixed his gaze on a knot on the wooden table. It was a few moments before he spoke.

"I — I don't know," he finally replied. A packet of artificial sweetener had somehow found its way into his hands, and his fingers were twiddling it around. "It's just hard to understand that he's just . . . gone. When he was around, I felt like I almost had a father again. And now he's dead too."

He felt slightly silly for admitting it, but it was true. He wiped a tear that was beginning to form.

"When I got back, for a while, I was just so . . . angry and sad all at once. I thought I was going insane. And last week, I just stopped caring altogether, about anything. I stopped cleaning my room, I stopped reading my spellbooks, and I even forgot to reply to Ron's and Hermione's letters. At least I cleaned Hedwig's cage every day —" he stopped at this, realizing that he was telling Dumbledore the most trivial, everyday things about his life at the Dursleys'.

Feeling very foolish, he looked up at the headmaster, and found that Dumbledore was watching him with rapt attention, concern in every line of his face. He decided to continue on, pausing between each sentence to collect his thoughts.

"I — I think I _know_ that this isn't what Sirius would have wanted for me. I don't think he'd want me to wallow like I have been, or hide from the world. He would have told me that life is short, especially now that Voldemort's back. I think . . . he always saw me as both my father and as his own son, kind of." At this, Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I can imagine that is what Sirius would have said," said Dumbledore reassuringly. "He always looked fiercely towards the bright side of life, even when death darkened the Order's doorstep in the first war."

Harry nodded, and spoke again.

"I think I'll try to do that too, now," he said, finally looking at the older wizard, who watched him through his half-moon spectacles. "It's been hard to think about him, but in the end, I know that I have to keep living. I might as well do it the way he would have wanted me to. I think I just needed to get this all out of my system. It —" He took a deep, steadying breath. "It does feel better to talk about him, after all. I thought it would just bring back painful memories, especially after it just happened, but I think my head is clearing up a little now." He gave it a little shake.

"I s'pose," he added, this time with hope apparent in his voice, "it should help if I could see Ron and Hermione again."

Dumbledore smiled at him gently.

"Yes, Harry. Friends are sometimes the best remedy for the most serious of ailments. Mr. Weasley will be delighted to see you, once I deliver you to the Burrow in a short while, and I daresay that he will have invited Miss Granger as well." Dumbledore had been sipping his coffee while Harry was talking, and now finished the last dregs before speaking.

"I am proud of you, Harry," he said as he returned the cup to the small saucer, "for coming to this decision."

Harry closed his eyes, and breathed evenly. Decision, yes, Dumbledore had put it into words — or rather, a word. He, Harry Potter, had made his decision to go on living properly — and he would do it in such a fashion that would make Sirius Black proud.

"Now, Harry, we must discuss another subject. If you are willing, I would like for you to attend private lessons with me this year."

Harry snapped out of his reverie.

"Private lessons, sir?" he asked, taken much by surprise. If there was anything he had been expecting Dumbledore to speak to him about, it would have been Sirius, or the prophecy, or his plans to combat Voldemort; certainly not this.

"Yes, Harry. Let me explain the situation as it stands. In the past few weeks, I have come to realize that we need to take greater action in the coming months to prepare for the inevitable conflict with Lord Voldemort."

The words 'inevitable conflict' brought Harry back into a brooding mood. What had been troubling him the most about the prophecy was its absoluteness. There was no mistake that he was the one who would have to eventually face Voldemort, and surely there was no escaping it. Even if he ran away from the prophecy, Voldemort would know — Voldemort would track him down, and kill him. Harry took a long sip of his coffee.

"To this end," Dumbledore continued, "Professor McGonagall and I have drafted a special accelerated program for sixth and seventh years who volunteer —"

"I'd like to participate, sir." Harry said quickly.

Dumbledore chuckled at him.

"Yes, I'd thought as much. Letters will be sent to you and your fellow sixth years along with the results of your O.W.L.s — in fact, I believe they are due to arrive on Monday. Anyhow," Dumbledore glanced around the almost empty diner before continuing his explanation, despite the silencing charm he had cast earlier. When he began speaking again, he lowered his voice.

"Harry, I want to teach you magic that is very advanced — magic that some of the most capable wizards have been unable to achieve, or even" — his voice was barely above a whisper — "to _control_."

Yes, that settled it, Harry thought to himself. In the words of Ronald Bilius Weasley, Dumbledore was officially off his rocker. To his surprise, the headmaster was actually smiling at the expression on his face, which Harry was quite certain read, '_you must be insane_.'

"I see that you do not quite believe me, Harry."

"Sir," said Harry, clearing his throat. "Pardon me, but . . . what?"

"I thought I made it quite plain, Harry, that I am planning to teach you advanced magic —"

"No sir, I mean, why me? Why not somebody, you know, smarter? Like Hermione?"

"Your friend, Miss Granger, is a very capable witch; that fact I do not contest. But Harry, tell me: was she able to produce a _corporeal_ Patronus at the age of thirteen?"

Harry shut his mouth, which had been hanging slightly open.

"And during your fight at the Department of Mysteries, if I recall correctly, you were the last one standing among your peers — and let me remind you, you are fifteen years old. Let me put it this way, if you will: do you recall your first lessons at Hogwarts?"

Harry nodded his head, very much unconvinced so far.

"One of the first Charms lessons for all first years involves the simple spell, Wingardium Leviosa. Was that an easy spell for you back then, Harry?"

"Not particularly, sir."

"And just over five years later, you were able to hold your ground against multiple, fully-educated, and fully-grown Death Eaters," Dumbledore said triumphantly, as though it were the answer to life itself.

"You may not be aware of this, having been raised in a Muggle household, but most students grow in strength by leaps and bounds during their final two years of schooling, far outstripping their previous achievements. It would not be terribly inaccurate to refer to it as a sort of magical growth spurt, so to speak. That is why the O.W.L.s are administered at the end of the fifth year: in order to take advantage of this growth spurt during the students' N.E.W.T.-level years.

"The fact that you could produce a corporeal Patronus in only your third year — a charm that most grown wizards have difficulty performing — speaks volumes of your inherent magical talents.

"Harry," urged Dumbledore, looking him straight in the eye. "If it is agreeable to you, I will help you unlock the true potential of your abilities. When I divulged the words of that prophecy to you, I realized that I was thrusting you towards Lord Voldemort without so much as a word of advice or a plan of action.

"If I recall correctly," the headmaster said with a rueful smile on his face, "you were quite upset with me last year, due to my lack of communication with you. And you were right to be upset with me, for I was undoubtedly at fault. I believe that, now, I should begin to take a greater hand in your education."

Harry's mouth had dropped open again several times, looking for a way to butt in, and he shut it again, considering.

"What exactly will I be learning, Professor?" he asked, after a few moments.

"I cannot discuss the specifics yet, Harry, not here. I will explain the details when we both return to the castle."

"If I'm having lessons with you, will I still have to do Occlumency with Snape?"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry. Has your scar been bothering you this summer?"

"No, sir, it's like Voldemort has broken off the connection."

The headmaster shook his head.

"I'd expected as much, but that's not quite it, Harry. I believe that Lord Voldemort has come to realize that you pose a more serious threat to him if you have such easy access to his private thoughts and feelings. It would seem that he is instead employing Occlumency against you."

"Good," breathed Harry cheerfully. "I'd rather not repeat … that."

Dumbledore nodded.

"From what I understand, those lessons made for quite a fiasco."

"Wh —" began Harry, but stopped as something else came to mind. "Professor, there's something I'm missing about these lessons, isn't there? What's the catch?"

Dumbledore smiled again, but this time in a somber sort of fashion.

"Very good, Harry," he said. "The lessons I am offering — they will not be easy. In fact, they may be the most difficult lessons of your magical career. I cannot promise that they will be entirely safe, either — no, in fact . . ." Dumbledore's voice trailed off, while Harry's attention was focused entirely on him. The headmaster's eyes were gazing into space, his expression suddenly distant, almost — haunted.

"They will be dangerous," he finished.

Harry could not help but notice that Dumbledore's voice had wavered at that last admission. He found himself wanting to question Dumbledore further. He wanted to know what had made the headmaster look as though he had seen a ghost; but he realized that this was probably not the time.

Dumbledore had seemed to recover, at any rate, and was rummaging in his cloak for something.

"Anyway, Harry, I do not require your decision at this moment. In fact, I want you to wait until next week to send me an owl."

He pulled out several one-pound coins to pay for their coffee, and the two of them stood up to leave. Outside, they walked away from the lights of the diner, towards a dark end of the street.

"The Order has been forced to vacate Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, of course," said Dumbledore, as they finally stopped. "We have set up headquarters at the Burrow, and at least one person is always awake on the ground floor, so we will not have to worry about calling rudely at this time of night."

Harry suddenly realized that he was rather tired, despite his nap before Dumbledore's arrival, and the cup of coffee he'd ingested. He stifled a yawn as he took Dumbledore's left arm, and the two of them Disapparated with a sharp _crack._

* * *

Next chapter: You ever wonder what it's like during a less-than-average day in the life of an Auror?

**About this story: **Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders and its sequel take place after Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. They are meant to be read in place of Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders is planned to take place in two parts, with sixteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

PDF and EPUB formats available through a link in the author profile.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Ch3v2: The Quick and the Dead

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. Some tiny bits of material also borrowed from: d20 system, the Forgotten Realms universe, and the Dragon Age universe.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Three v2

"The Quick and the Dead"

7 March 2011

FanFictionDotNet Edit

Original Version: 13 August 2009

"_Hail, hail, infantry,_

_Queen of battles, follow me;_

_It's an Auror's duty-bond for me_

_Well, nothing in this life is free_ . . ."

— from an Auror Candidate's running cadence, c. 1940.

In the modern day United Kingdom, Auror Basic School is three years long. It encompasses one of the most difficult professional curricula in the world, and has a failure rate of just over fifty percent. A candidate is required to possess a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s, with a grade of 'Exceeds Expectations,' or higher. A N.E.W.T. in Defense Against the Dark Arts is obviously required, but in order to be competitive, the candidate should also possess N.E.W.T. grades of 'Outstanding' or 'Exceeds Expectations' in Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions.

During Basic School, the candidate not only hones her skill in the use of magic during battle, but also in the subjects such as 'Squad Tactics,' 'Concealment and Disguise,' and 'Stealth and Tracking.' Daily physical training is also an integral part of Auror training. Aurors are primarily magical combatants, of course, but they are also given basic instruction in hand-to-hand combat, Muggle warfare, and are required to pass a standardized test on relevant wizarding laws at some point before leaving the Basic School.

In the event that an Auror is assigned a mission that is anticipated to involve international travel, she is given a short briefing on the customs and etiquette of the countries in question. Alternatively, the Auror can elect to receive regular instruction on these matters at any point during her career, which will give her priority when such missions are available.

Aurors that have lived long lives will claim that the most invaluable lesson that is taught by the Basic School is for the candidate to trust her instincts.

This is probably what saved the life of Nymphadora Tonks and her charges on the warm evening of 12 July 1996.

* * *

Less than two weeks prior, through a gross display of carelessness and negligence, the June 30th issue of the _Daily Prophet_ had released the names of the students involved in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries earlier that month. In the first war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the newspaper had done a similar disservice to the magical community, failing to censor the names of individuals involved in the resistance. When the war ended, the editor of the paper was accused of endangering the lives of many witches and wizards.

However, he was acquitted on the grounds that there was very little evidence against the _Prophet_, especially since far more attacks had been conducted by the Death Eaters than simply on those whose names had appeared in the paper.

The Longbottoms had taken the publicity in stride. They had been targets of the Death Eaters since the first war, especially due to the fact that Frank and Alice Longbottom were widely considered to be two of the best Aurors in the country, not to mention the most popular. Within hours of the paper delivery on June 30th, the family rallied behind the son of Frank and Alice — Neville Longbottom — after he was named as one of the participants in the battle.

In the following days, most of the Longbottom family had returned to reside in the Longbottom family estate just outside of Sunderland. Though Frank and Alice Longbottom had been in St. Mungo's since driven insane by their torture at the hands of Death Eaters, their reputation preceded their family, and only a suicidal Death Eater would dare to come near the estate.

Luna Lovegood had also been named as one of the students present during the battle. She and her father Xenophilius Lovegood lived alone a short distance north of the village of Ottery St. Catchpole in a dwelling known as 'the Rook.'

However, when members of the Order of the Phoenix visited the Rook, they did not find any trace of the Lovegoods. Their disappearance was the cause for a good amount of anxiety until Ron and Ginny Weasley recalled their conversation at the end of last term at Hogwarts, in which Luna mentioned vacationing in Sweden with her father to search for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

Ron and Ginny had also been mentioned in the article, and were holed up in the Burrow while it was being transformed into the new headquarters for the Order. The Burrow was now unplottable, and the subject of a Fidelius Charm, once again with Albus Dumbledore as Secret Keeper. The building itself was now so thickly layered with curse-wards that it would have put the Prime Minister's office to shame.

The fireplace at the Burrow had been disconnected from the Floo Network, which made travel difficult. Lord Voldemort's forces were sure to be monitoring the activities on the Floo Network, and an inordinate amount of travel to and from the Burrow would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention. However, even if the Order wanted to use the Floo Network from the Burrow, there was no guarantee that it would function properly any longer.

Fred and George Weasley had dropped out of Hogwarts the previous year, and purchased office and living space on Diagon Alley. The apartment above their new joke shop also functioned as a private laboratory, where new Weasley Wizard Wheezes were presumably concocted daily. Unfortunately for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, their sons had also been attempting to develop a form of secure floo powder, to directly connect the fireplace in their apartment to that of the Burrow.

It had worked, mostly. The twins were able to make the trip from Number Ninety-Three, Diagon Alley to the Burrow without being detected by the Floo Network Headquarters (which Tonks was monitoring at the time). However, the powder had had the most unfortunate side effect of destroying the fireplace, scattering bricks and soot into the otherwise well-kept living room of the Burrow.

After fleeing their mother's wrath, Fred and George returned to their apartment to discover that their fireplace had suffered the same fate. Both fireplaces had since been repaired, but the status and fidelity of their connections to the Floo Network remained unknown, and the Burrow's was completely disconnected the next day.

Harry Potter had been mentioned in the article, but he would have obviously been a target of the Death Eaters whether or not his name appeared in the paper. For the first few weeks of the summer, he remained in his aunt's house, where he was safe from Voldemort due to the Blood Magic that had transferred the protection of his mother's love to her next of kin. Subsequently, he was transferred to the Burrow by Dumbledore himself shortly before midnight on July 12th.

The last student mentioned in the article was a Muggle-born witch, and that was a problem.

Drs. David and Linda Granger were Muggle dentists, who had been practicing in Brighton since the 1970s. They were a well-to-do couple, and lived in a large home near Hove Park. When their daughter Hermione Granger appeared in the June 30th issue of the _Daily Prophet_, they had only a vague idea of its implications. Even though their daughter exasperatedly tried to convince them to take a nice, long vacation in another country, they did not heed her warnings. It was not until the arrival of Dumbledore on their doorstep that they finally seemed to grasp the concept that their daughter had been in a battle, in which she could easily have lost her life.

Hermione's parents wordlessly sat through Dumbledore's extensive recanting of the first war against Lord Voldemort. Over the years, they had been given a rough introduction into the wizarding world, courtesy Hermione's studies. However, when the Headmaster spoke of the war, he did so with such emotion and attention to detail that Hermione interrupted several times with her own questions, wanting to make the most of the Headmaster's visit.

David and Linda had always been proud parents. Even while Hermione was still in primary school, they had known that she was several steps ahead of her peers. During the long summers, she would gladly plow through the shelves of books in her parents' collection, only venturing outside at her mother's behest — and even then, her parents usually found her buried in literature in the oddest of places. It wasn't that they didn't want her to spend her time reading; it was just tiring to coax her out of the boughs of a nearby oak tree in time for dinner.

Even though they were frightened out of their wits for their daughter, Dumbledore's stories of the wars of wizards put the Battle for the Department of Mysteries into perspective. So, they could not help but feel at least some sense of pride as they listened while Hermione took her turn to speak to them for the first time about her role in the fight.

Initially, they were dumbstruck. Their Hermione, the sweet little girl that they had raised on books and warm summer evenings, fighting some of the most advanced practitioners of the Dark Arts? Incapacitating two fully grown and trained Death Eaters, and silencing a third, with only a long bruise across her chest as evidence of the struggle?

They were somewhat placated when Dumbledore reminded them that not only was Hermione the cleverest witch in her year, but that she would also become a legal adult in the wizarding world in the coming September.

It was well into the night when Drs. Granger and Granger finally consented to the security measures upon which Dumbledore and Hermione insisted.

The evening when Dumbledore called upon Harry at Number Four, Privet Drive was the same evening that Hermione was to leave her parents' house for the Burrow. Transportation, however, was somewhat problematic.

Hermione could not yet Apparate, and neither Tonks nor Charlie Weasley — her guard for that night — had mastered Side-Along Apparition. Floo powder was out of the question, and since the Burrow was now unplottable, the Knight Bus would be unable to locate it, besides the fact that it was not the safest way to travel if you were wanted by dark wizards.

So that was why Charlie was busy strapping Hermione's trunk to a Ministry-owned Nimbus Two Thousand One broomstick in the middle of Hove Park. With their ranks stretched thin, Tonks was the only Auror whose ongoing assignment was to assist the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Though the Ministry was still largely unaware of the Order's existence, Dumbledore and Scrimgeour had managed repair the previously near-hostile relations between the Ministry and Hogwarts into some working order. Scrimgeour was loathe to give up his best Auror, when she could be doing something productive for him; but Dumbledore successfully reassured the new Minister that Tonks would be only serving him to her fullest capacity. Since Scrimgeour understood that the support of the Headmaster of Hogwarts was crucial during times of war, Tonks was walking behind and to the right of Hermione and her parents as they strode into the park towards Charlie's stocky form.

With a nod from Tonks, Charlie gave Hermione a wink, threw Alastor Moody's spare Invisibility Cloak over his head, and took off ahead of them with her belongings.

The reason Scrimgeour considered Tonks to be his best Auror was most definitely not because she was very good at espionage. As she had told Harry just a year before, she was dreadfully clumsy, and almost failed her Stealth and Tracking course during Basic School. She was redeemed by her ability to change her appearance at will as a Metamorphmagus, earning top marks in Concealment and Disguise.

She might not have been the best spy, but there was something to be said for her skills as a warrior.

Hermione had turned to bid her parents goodbye when her hair suddenly stood on end.

"GET DOWN!" barked Tonks from behind them.

Without thinking, Hermione threw herself onto her parents, knocking them over, as a Stunning Spell flew over their heads. A bright light descended down on them, as Tonks sent up a magical flare to illuminate the immediate area.

She rolled over, shouting at her parents to stay down. Drawing her wand, she stood in a defensive stance over them, looking quickly around.

Two Death Eaters had emerged from behind trees on either side of their party. From the slight shimmer around their bodies, it was apparent that they had also been Disillusioned. One was tall and menacing, while the other was distinctly burly. Both were clad in black robes, and wearing masks.

Seeing Tonks already charging towards the tall Death Eater, Hermione jumped between her parents and his partner. Spells and curses were running through her head, moments during the D.A. training sessions with Harry, the battle at the ministry barely a month ago —

The Death Eater stopped and surveyed her for a moment, before dropping mockingly into the bow that traditionally signaled the beginning of a wizards' duel.

"_Reducto!_" shouted Hermione, flinging her first curse before he returned upright, but he deflected it quickly and waved a finger at her.

Tonks had begun to move the moment she felt a prickling disturbance nearby — to an Auror, the telltale sign of a wand releasing the energy of a spell. While shouting for the Grangers to cover themselves, she sent up the Order's Flare, a spell that she had invented for the Order's use by modifying the existing Auror's Flare. As she charged forward, she wordlessly sent a Severing Charm at the tall Death Eater's wand hand. He dodged it, but she heard a grunt as the tail end of the spell caught his thigh.

Her advance was temporarily slowed by the Death Eater's Impediment jinx rebounding off of her Shield Charm. Raising her wand, Tonks sent forward a Full Body-Bind which was blocked with a wave of the Death Eater's wand, and a sharp iron-on-iron grating noise sounded as the spell was parried. Recovering to an upright stance, the Death Eater sent a Stunning Spell at her chest, but Tonks was no longer there.

She was diving at his feet, shouting, "_Silencio! Incarcerous!_" The Death Eater felt his voice leave his mouth, and thick ropes quickly wrapped his body, starting with his feet and quickly over his mouth and eyes. "_Petrificus totalus!_" caused his limbs to snap together, and the ropes continued wrapping around him.

Then, arriving at his feet, Tonks used a Banishing Charm to send him flying for twenty meters — straight up into the air.

Pivoting on the grass, she sprung back onto her feet and began racing towards Hermione and the second Death Eater before the first one had hit the ground behind her with the crack of a spine breaking and a sound very much like meat hitting wood.

Hermione was doing a fairly decent job of keeping the remaining Death Eater away from her parents. He failed to block the full force of one of her Reductor Curses, and his mask flew away, revealing him to be Antonin Dolohov. During the battle at the Ministry, Dolohov had been the Death Eater to finally incapacitate Hermione, even after she silenced him. Now, the young witch was fighting back with a vengeance, her bushy hair flying as she dodged and weaved. Dolohov's robes were tattered by many near misses.

Unfortunately, Dolohov was the more experienced duelist, and Hermione was beginning to suffer from several small injuries. She had only barely dodged a Severing Charm that would have taken off her head, and she hadn't had time to recast her Shield Charm after a Stunning Spell shattered it

By the time Tonks began running towards them, Dolohov had missed Hermione's robes with a Flagrante Curse, but somehow hit her wand instead. It grew red hot, and Hermione dropped it with a yelp of pain.

Dolohov spotted Tonks running towards him, and sensing that she was without a Shield Charm at the moment, whipped his wand at her and shouted, "_Expelliarmus!_"

To his great pleasure, Tonks' wand flew out of her hand.

He turned back to Hermione. She was still standing between him and her parents. How silly — she was the one he'd set out to kill in the first place. They would make an example of her, to any who dared to stand in the way of the Dark Lord. He had to admit, it was a shame, really. He knew she was a Mudblood, but still. The righteous anger in her eyes as she stood, glaring at him while bathing in the light of the Auror's Flare, made her beautiful. He would grant her a beautiful death. And then, by the time the Auror's backup arrived, he would be gone with her body.

Dolohov raised his wand into the high ready position, and then began his incantation.

"_Avada Ked—"_

Well that was odd. Usually, he didn't stop saying those words once he'd started. Maybe something was wrong with his mouth. There was a strange feeling of something cold, hard, and definitely metal. No, now there was something warm, watery, and iron-tasting.

Dolohov looked down at the rather long knife that had somehow found its way through the middle of his tongue, and was now embedded in the roof of his mouth. He could have _sworn_ that the Auror had been —

The Auror in question was currently flying through the air after her knife, annoyed that she'd missed her target. Her foot connected with the Death Eater's chest, and he was knocked over backwards into the grass. Recovering, she pounced on him again, retrieved the combat knife from his mouth, and plunged it into his throat.

There were several sharp _cracks_, and several figures appeared around the circumference of the Flare's light. Looking around, Hermione recognized Filius Flitwick, Alastor Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. She retrieved her wand with her unburned hand, stowed it in her robes, and then helped her parents to their feet.

"Mum, Dad, are you —"

"We're fine, honey," her mother said hurriedly. "Let me see you — oh dear, your hand!"

Hermione looked at her hand. Her palm and forefinger had suffered from minor burns, but it was otherwise intact. She was bleeding from several places, but as far as she could tell, she was not grievously injured.

"Hermione, are you okay?"

She nodded, and her father pulled her into his arms.

"Come, dear, we need to get you looked at properly," said her mother, anxiously, and she began sliding off Hermione's robes.

There was a sharp _crack_, and Hermione looked over to see that Kingsley had Disapparated. Moody was still speaking with Tonks, but Flitwick, the Charms professor at Hogwarts, was walking towards them.

"Miss Granger!" he squeaked, pulling up alongside her. "Are you badly injured?"

"No, Professor," she replied. Hermione noticed that her voice was weak, and her knees had begun trembling. She cleared her throat as her mother managed to pull off her robe.

"Mum, Dad, this is Professor Flitwick — he teaches Charms at s—sc—school." She choked at the end of the sentence, and her knees gave way from under her. Her parents shouted in surprise and bent down to her, arranging her into a seated position.

"Suffering from a mild case of the Shakes," growled Moody, as he and Tonks made their way towards them. "Happens after combat." He took out his hip flask and unscrewed the cap, pouring some of its contents into a glass that Flitwick obligingly conjured.

"Drink this, lass," and Moody gently placed it in her hands. Hermione obliged. It tasted strongly of whiskey, complete with the fumes — but she could tell that there was also some magical content. Hermione felt a warm sensation in her chest, which slowly spread to her extremities. When it reached her knees, they stopped trembling.

"Hold still, Miss Granger," said Flitwick, steadying his wand. "I may not be a healer, but bandages, I can do."

As Flitwick's conjured bandages wrapped themselves to her wounds, she felt a soothing sensation emanating from the surfaces touching her skin. When he began dressing her wand hand, the pain from the burn receded in favor of the wonderful, cooling balm.

"These dressings," he said, wrapping them around her wrist as he spoke, "will last at least until you arrive at your destination. I give them roughly two hours — you'll do well to have your wounds looked at by a proper healer."

"Thanks, Professor," she breathed when he was done.

"Not a problem, Miss Granger. I couldn't very well leave you bleeding." He looked around and then winked conspiratorially. "And I have it on good authority that you will be receiving an 'Outstanding' Charms O.W.L. this coming Monday."

Hermione smiled weakly.

"Granger," barked Moody, causing all three Grangers to jump in surprise, and then look up at him. "Shacklebolt's just gone to intercept the idiots at the Improper Use of Magic Office. If they still show up this week to confiscate your wand, you have my _express_ permission to hex them into oblivion."

Hermione was about to ask Moody how he could possibly give her permission to do such a thing, when she realized that he was smiling broadly at her, which was very, very frightening. Since he was missing half his nose and his magical eye was whirring from side to side in its socket, Moody looked like he'd jumped straight out of a Muggle horror film.

"Some fine spellwork there, Granger; Tonks was telling me about it," he said approvingly. Apparently, he growled even when he was happy. "Took on Dolohov all by yourself, did you? I reckon he gave me the most trouble when I took him in the last time."

Hermione looked over his shoulder at Tonks, who seemed rather downhearted. Her hair had been a deep orange earlier that night, but it was now sinking to a dark brown, almost black. Her robe was torn in several places, and it was missing half of its right sleeve. The front had come undone, and her leather-and-dragonhide waistcoat was splattered with blood.

"Tonks, are you hurt?"

Tonks gave her a rueful smile.

"No, Hermione. I just wish I'd gotten to him faster. Look at you!" Tonks seemed like she was about to lose her composure, but bent down and swept Hermione into a hug instead.

"It's okay, Tonks," said Hermione reassuringly, patting her back.

Flitwick left shortly, citing business at Gringotts on behalf of the Order. By the time Hermione had opened her mouth to remind him that Gringotts wasn't open this late, the diminutive professor had Disapparated.

Moody elected to accompany Tonks and Hermione on their flight to the Burrow. He Disapparated away as well, to fetch a spare broomstick. Tonks left Hermione with her parents to search for her wand.

"Mum, it's fine, Professor Flitwick is an expert at Charms," she admonished, as her mother insisted on inspecting the bandages herself. "_Honestly_, look, promise me you'll both take care of yourselves. Stay in the house when you can. The wards that Dumbledore and I put up — they're really very powerful."

Her parents, who up to that point had looked and sounded like complete nervous wrecks, suddenly exchanged glances with each other and burst out in laughter. Hermione looked at them, positively annoyed.

"_What's so funny?_" she hissed, upset.

Her father put his hands on her shoulders.

"Hermione, _we're_ the parents who're letting their daughter go off to fight some overpowered evil monster bent on ruling the world. And you're telling _us_ to be careful?"

"No, Hermione, dear," her mother joined in. "_You_ have to promise us that you'll take care of yourself."

"I will, Mum," Hermione smiled, seeing the irony in the situation.

"Promise us you'll write more this year," pressed her father. "We hardly heard from you at all, and then you come back and tell us there's a war being put on."

"I will."

"And," her father looked around and whispered, his hands still on her shoulders, "Hermione, that was really amazing."

She blushed.

"It wasn't, Dad, really. If Tonks hadn't —"

"If _you_ hadn't," corrected her mother, "I'm guessing we wouldn't be standing here now."

"Yeah, well . . . "

"What was that one that you used to take off his mask? He looked right angry when you did that."

"That was a Reductor Curse, Dad."

"Reductor, huh?" Her father gave a low whistle. In spite of the situation, Hermione beamed sheepishly.

A sharp _crack_ announced Moody's return.

"Granger and Granger," he growled, limping over to them. Hermione fought with all her might to suppress a laugh that would not have been unwarranted — the ex-Auror looked ridiculous. In one hand, he was holding a broomstick out to the side, while the other hand grasped his walking stick. His prosthetic leg made him waddle slightly, and when he walked, he inadvertently made a sort of awkward flailing motion with the arm that held the broomstick.

"I'll be escortin' you back to your house. Tonks" — she had returned with her wand and two broomsticks — "and Miss Granger here will take off ahead of me. I'll sweep around to the south" — he made another awkward flailing motion with his arm in the direction of the coast — "and catch up with you later."

Hermione's parents looked absolutely terrified at the prospect of being 'escorted' back to their house by a man with a flailing broomstick, half a nose, a whirling eye, and a prosthetic leg, but they stood up anyway to thank Tonks for saving them and their daughter. Tonks, whose hair had begun to change to the purple that she usually wore, wished them to keep themselves safe.

They turned to bid their daughter goodbye, and each took Hermione in their arms.

"We love you, dear," said her mother.

"And we're proud of you too," her father finished.

"Thanks, I love you too, Mum, Dad."

And they were off, Moody leading the way out of the park, looking for all the world like a drunk sailor who fancied that the broomstick he carried was a flagon of ale.

Before he had left, Shacklebolt had asked Tonks to help him Vanish the bodies of the Death Eaters towards the Ministry in London, in the same manner that Dumbledore had managed to Vanish all of Harry's belongings all the way from Surrey to Ottery St. Catchpole on his own. It had taken a lot of power, and Tonks wearily pointed her wand at the Order's Flare (which had begun to sputter and grow dim), and it winked out.

Falling on her rump beside Hermione on the ground, Tonks helped her put her robes back on.

"Hermione, do you mind if we rest for a minute? I need to catch my breath."

Hermione shook her head, and then realized that Tonks might not able to see it in the dark.

"No, it's okay," she said. She'd been dreading this part all along, and now that the excitement and adrenaline of the fight were wearing away, she looked at the brooms resting across Tonks' lap with an expression of extreme apprehension.

Despite the dim light, Tonks guessed her thoughts correctly and patted her on the back.

"Don't like flying?"

"Well . . ." began Hermione. It wasn't that she hated flying, or anything. As long as it was, say, ten feet off the ground, and at twenty miles per hour. Or in an airplane. Then, it wasn't so bad.

"It's just that . . . whenever I think of flying, I think of Quidditch. And whenever I think of Quidditch, I think of Harry —" She made a diving motion with her hand.

Tonks saw it and laughed.

"Don't worry, we won't be doing any of those stunts," she reassured.

Hermione smiled gratefully.

"How long is the flight?"

"Well," said Tonks, examining the brooms, "these beauties are Nimbus Two Thousand Ones, so the top speed is about, oh, one hundred forty?"

"Miles per hour?" squeaked Hermione, her eyes widening. _One hundred twenty too fast_.

"Yeah, so I'd put the flight at about an hour, if we go a tad slower than that," finished Tonks, grinning. "What's the matter? You take on one of You-Know-Who's best duelists, but you can't get on a broomstick?"

Hermione punched her on the shoulder.

* * *

Several minutes later, they took off into the night sky. Hermione drew her cloak tighter about her as they ascended away from the ground-warmed air.

It wasn't so bad, as long as she didn't look down. She kept her eyes on Tonks, who flew slightly in front of her and to the left. Tonks took pity on Hermione's wrecked nerves, and for the first few minutes, they flew at half speed so that she could adjust to the sensation. When she finally worked up the nerve to glance downwards, Hermione could see that they were keeping to the coastline, so as not to get lost.

Moody caught up with them as they were passing between Selsey and the Isle of Wight, and they pushed forward towards Ottery St. Catchpole at top speed.

* * *

Next chapter: Harry finally gets to fly. He's so excited.

**About this story: **Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders and its sequel take place after Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. They are meant to be read in place of Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders is planned to take place in two parts, with sixteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

PDF and EPUB formats available through a link in the author profile.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Ch4v2: Night on the Rooftop

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _Some tiny bits of material also borrowed from: d20 system, the Forgotten Realms universe, and the Dragon Age universe.

**Author's Note (18 March 2011)**: The pre-chapter excerpt/quote in this chapter is a nod to the Warhammer 40000 universe – for _there is only the Emperor, and he is our shield and protector_.

**Author's Note** **(16 August 2009)**: Wow, people actually read this. Thank you very much for the reviews, to those who left them.

Over the course of this story, we'll see Harry become more powerful as he rises to the challenge of taking on Voldemort. He won't be able to defeat his nemesis on luck and deus ex machina alone! But don't worry – the power to defeat the Dark Lord won't come easily to our hero. This chapter will only be the start of his trials and tribulations.

A warning: this chapter is a little longer than usual, and it won't be the last of its kind (though it probably will be the longest of its kind (Author's Note 18 March 2011: LOL)). I can't just let Harry go off conquering the world. First, he has to come to terms with himself.

Anyway, the story!

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Four v2

"Night on the Rooftop"

18 March 2011

FanFictionDotNet Edit

Original Version: 16 August 2009

"_Barring the use of the rare and expensive Cloak of Invisibility, simple Disillusionment is the best and most field-expedient camouflage option. Otherwise, the Auror shall wear her colors openly; for what the enemy can see, he shall soon learn to fear_."

– from the _Manual for Engagement_ for Her Majesty's Auror Office, authored c. 1700, retired 1945, reinstated 1996.

Apparition is a dangerous business, at best. If it weren't for the damnable convenience that it represented to the wizarding world, most would agree that the gross unpleasantries of the ordeal would turn away all but the most stout-hearted of would-be Apparators. It was an uncontested fact that not one witch or wizard would ever forget his or her first taste of Apparition. No, it was more likely that they would be reminded of it every single day – the disturbingly uncomfortable sensation of being squeezed into a pipe that was much, much too small. A pipe which, unfortunately, grew longer in proportion to the distance being covered by the Apparator.

And then, of course, there was the small and terrifying matter that the textbooks referred to as 'Accidental Splinching.' Everybody else, of course, simply referred to it as 'splinching,' and with good reason. Nobody in their right mind would undergo _purposeful_ splinching, after all. If splinching were something that could be forced, there most likely would have been no need for any of the Unforgivable Curses.

_Crucio_ would obviously be replaced by the very noticeable complaints by the victim's nerve endings, as they tried desperately to inform the brain that the body part that they were supposed to be connected to was no longer present, and that they were waiting for orders (_'This is Left Arm to Brain; Left Hand is not responding; please advise, over'_). The brain, of course, would be too busy trying to come to terms with the fact that part of its body had been left elsewhere, so the nerve endings would complain louder, thinking that the brain hadn't acknowledged them. The moment the initial shock wore off, the splinchee would then wish that someone would mercifully apply _Crucio_ to take their mind off the pain.

_Imperio_ would simply be replaced by the threat of splinching.

_Avada Kedavra_ would pale in comparison. Why kill somebody and then have to Vanish the body, when you could be more efficient and simply Apparate different parts of the person away to different locations?

Splinching aside, Harry said to himself, Apparition proved one thing. The wizarding world was full of masochists. Why else would you invent a spell that mimicked the ladies' corsets from the Victorian era? Ramming your insides together and maybe breaking a few ribs; your organs jostling for space, and making you hope fervently that there was a fainting couch at your destination.

Apparition: the instant teleportation spell that actually lasted for hours and hours.

Contrary to the experience of most of the witches and wizards who had passed the Apparition test, Harry's second experience was much worse than the first time. The first time Harry Apparated, it had been less than a mile in length. He and Dumbledore could have walked to the late-night diner, and it would have taken about ten minutes. Apparating from Little Whinging to Ottery St. Catchpole was a distance of roughly one hundred fifty miles, give or take a dozen.

Elaboration aside, Harry found himself on the wet, cold ground gasping for air. He'd done it. Dumbledore had done it. He'd invented a time-travel spell. That was the only explanation as to why he'd been stuck in agonizing limbo for hours, only to look at the glow-in-the-dark hands on his watch and see that only a few seconds had passed.

"All right there, Harry?" came the old wizard's voice from somewhere behind him. "It was a good jump. Alas, you never really get completely used to it, I'm afraid – "

"Good, sir," he said through gritted teeth, tottering back onto his feet. "I was afraid for a second that it might become rather mundane."

Dumbledore chuckled in the dark.

Harry looked around. They were surrounded by what seemed to be grass taller than he was. He stood in a small circular clearing of slightly damp, bare soil. A small divide in the wall of grass marked the entrance to a path which presumably led to the many-storied structure beyond.

For a few moments, all of Harry's negative thoughts and tiredness were washed away. He followed Dumbledore up the dirt path through the grass, feeling his excitement grow. They exited the grass onto the Weasleys' front lawn, where chickens would be pecking in only a few short hours. It was still his second favorite building in the world; Ron was here, as well as Mrs. Weasley, who cooked the best breakfast that Harry had ever tasted.

Examining the house, Harry noticed that there had been some changes to the building since he'd last visited. The section that housed the dining room had been extended lengthwise by a couple of meters, made noticeable by the divide between the newly stained wood of the extension and the foundation of the building below it.

Harry had always presumed that magic was an integral part of the Burrow's construction, and looking up confirmed this. Beside the distinct outline of what Harry recognized as Ron's bedroom, there was an addition to the structure – an extra room that jutted out beyond the rest of the building at a slight cant, and without any supports underneath it. On the opposite side of the house and one floor below, there was another such addition that was, by the looks of it, still under construction.

Harry began walking towards the front door, when he realized that Dumbledore was circling around the house. There was a light coming through the casement windows in the kitchen, but the rest of the house was dark, save for a faint glow coming from one of the upper bedrooms.

Dumbledore pushed open the gate between the hedge bordering the garden and the house, and Harry followed him onto the back doorstep, which was lit by a single lantern. The headmaster rapped sharply on the door, and a surprised squeal sounded from inside the kitchen, followed by what Harry presumed to be a chair toppling over.

"Who is it?" a shaky voice finally asked. Harry recognized it as Mrs. Weasley, and was going to speak, when Dumbledore beat him to it.

"Molly, it is Albus Dumbledore, and I have brought Harry with me."

The door opened, and Mrs. Weasley stood in its place, her face fraught with worry.

"Come in, come in, dears," she said, stepping aside. "Oh Albus, you haven't seen Hermione and Tonks, have you?"

Harry's heart leapt at the mention of his other best friend, but he noticed Dumbledore's eyes narrow.

"No. What seems to be the matter, Molly?" he asked sharply, following her into the house.

They were now walking into the dining room, which had indeed been extended. The table and benches had been lengthened to allow for a few more seats along each side. Hedwig was already here, and she hooted happily when she noticed Harry. Harry looked at her fondly in greeting, and noticed that her talons were embedded in a strip of raw meat. Crookshanks, Hermione's bandy-legged cat, was crouched on the bench a few feet behind her, apparently gauging whether a piece of the meat was worth risking the owl's wrath. He turned back to Mrs. Weasley, who was walking briskly past the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room.

"If Hermione isn't here, then how did Crookshanks – ?"

"Charlie was already here, showed up a little less than an hour ago with Hermione's things – sit down, Harry, while I fetch something to eat."

Harry sat across the table from Dumbledore, who was still watching Mrs. Weasley expectantly for an explanation.

"We've been waiting because we thought that Hermione and Tonks would be right behind him – that was the plan, wasn't it?"

A loud clanging noise rang throughout the kitchen, as the cauldron announced to Mrs. Weasley that its contents were up to temperature. She deftly scooped a ladleful of soup into a waiting bowl, and placed it in front of Harry, along with a slice of bread.

Dumbledore looked slightly perturbed.

"I'm sure that Nymphadora is taking good care of Miss Granger, though, it is rather uncharacteristic of her to be behind schedule – ah, thank you, Molly," he added, as a knife floated itself towards him, buttering a slice of bread as it bounced along in the air.

"Charlie's just gone back to the Ministry to meet with Shacklebolt – "

As the headmaster took a bite out of his bread, there was a loud knock on the door. However, it was the sound of wood against wood, and noticeably different from a fist. Harry looked over at Dumbledore quizzically, only to see that the headmaster and Mrs. Weasley had both drawn their wands. Hurriedly, he pulled his out of his jeans as well, and the three of them cautiously moved towards the door. Mrs. Weasley tried to block Harry from the line of sight of the door, but he managed to edge himself to occupy the space behind and to her right.

"Who calls?" challenged Dumbledore, his wand at the ready. He seemed to have forgotten all about the bandaged state of his hand, which was gripped the slender piece of wood tightly, ready to swing it forward at a moment's notice.

There was a loud grunt, and Dumbledore raised his wand further, before another voice made itself heard.

"Moody! Don't! They won't be expecting you – Dumbledore, it's Tonks!"

Harry briefly saw a look of surprise and relief on the headmaster's face, before it settled on something decidedly closer to 'expressionless' as the headmaster opened the door.

"Trouble, Dumbledore," growled Moody. He stomped off to the kitchen as Harry and Mrs. Weasley jumped aside to make room for him. Without Moody's figure in the way, the three were left to a shocking sight.

The porch lamp was on, and in its light stood Tonks, whose arm was wrapped protectively around Hermione. Tonks' traveling cloak was in tatters. It was missing half a sleeve, and there were several rips and burn marks along the sides. Its front was torn open, with several buttons missing, and she was wearing a duelist's leather-and-dragonhide armored vest caked in dried blood.

Hermione stood next to her, looking incredibly tired. Though she was not soaked in blood, her multiple bandages certainly did not detract from the 'battered-and-bruised' theme that she and Tonks seemed to have decided on for the night.

With a cry of surprise, Mrs. Weasley pulled them both in, and Dumbledore closed and locked the door behind them.

"Hermione!" Harry managed to breathe, and she looked at him, realizing for the first time that he was there.

For a moment, she looked like she was going to shout his name as well, but instead she found herself enveloped in a tight hug. Once in Harry's arms, she began to slump forward, fully intending to fall asleep, but the welcome embrace ended as abruptly as it began, and Harry held her out at arm's length to examine her bandages.

"Hermione, what happened?" he demanded, his eyes resting on the bandages around her throat.

"Tonks made me ride a broomstick," she said, straightening up painfully. "I don't imagine I'll ever want to do that again. It's quite a harrowing experience, and my back aches something terrible." She yawned. And then, seeing Harry's incredulous look, she gasped and corrected herself. "Oh no, you meant the bandages!"

Harry had opened his mouth to exclaim, '_Obviously!_' but thought better of it.

"We were attacked," she managed to squeak, in her tired voice. "Death Eaters. Come on, let's go to the kitchen; Tonks is probably explaining what happened . . . "

Harry and Dumbledore sat wordlessly through Tonks' recital of the night's events. Moody was sipping quietly at a steaming bowl of soup, and his magical eye was pointed upwards, presumably scanning the bedrooms to see who else was present.

Mrs. Weasley listened in while attending to Hermione's wounds. The many years of mothering a large family of mostly boys had made healing a necessary skill, which she now put to good use. Harry snuck a glance and caught a glimpse of a very long and rather bloody cut extending across Hermione's shoulder and inwards toward her collarbone. It was mended as Mrs. Weasley's wand passed slowly along it, and the blood was wiped away by a wet rag that floated beside Mrs. Weasley's arm. As they were removed, the conjured bandages began to disintegrate into the air. In a few minutes, the ordeal was finished. Hermione flexed her mended palm in relief, and gratefully embraced her healer.

"Not at all, dear," said Mrs. Weasley, when Hermione began thanking her. "Will you have some soup before you turn in?"

Hermione shook her head, mumbling something incoherent and possibly uncharacteristically vulgar about flying.

"Nonsense, dear," Mrs. Weasley said briskly, fetching a bowl. "You'll feel better about it once you have something warm in your body." It appeared that she was right, and color gradually returned to Hermione's pale skin as she sipped at her bowl.

Harry listened attentively as Tonks described the fight, and he found himself holding the edge of the table in a death grip when she mentioned Dolohov's attempted Killing curse. Dumbledore only nodded gravely for Tonks to continue.

The remainder of the trip, once they had departed Brighton, had been uneventful. When Tonks finished her story, no one spoke. The kitchen was silent until a '_clunk'_ made the entire audience jump. The source of the noise had been Moody, as he propped himself back up on his walking stick, waving his empty bowl back over to the sink in the kitchen.

"Dumbledore," he said in his gravelly voice, "I've got to head back to Bristol. We'll be needing to talk later, about . . ." He paused, and his magical eye whirled and came to an abrupt stop, fixed on Harry. ". . . Events," he finished, his voice sounding rather menacing. Harry looked back and forth between Dumbledore and Moody for an explanation, but Dumbledore simply nodded without looking at Moody.

When Moody left, the uncomfortable silence continued for a few more minutes. Harry wanted badly to ask questions of Tonks and Dumbledore, but they seemed extremely preoccupied with their own thoughts. The headmaster was chewing his piece of bread, staring into space. It was about a minute later and with mild shock that Harry realized that Dumbledore was simply waiting to be left alone with Tonks. He blinked in surprise at his realization. Why hadn't Hermione said anything? Wasn't she usually the one to notice these subtle, unsaid things before he did?

He looked over at Hermione, intending to nudge her under the table, when he saw why she hadn't said anything about the situation. She had fallen asleep, with her head resting peacefully beside the half-empty bowl of soup.

Mrs. Weasley's gaze had followed Harry's, and seeing that Hermione had fallen unconscious at the table, she smiled to hide her concern.

"Harry, dear," she said, collecting the bowl and moving towards the kitchen. "Why don't you take Hermione upstairs to Ginny's room? You should go to bed yourself, too, by the looks of the time. I've put your things on the camp bed beside Ron."

Suppressing his urge to rebel and see what Dumbledore had to say, Harry put a hand on Hermione's shoulder and gently shook her back to consciousness.

Hermione grumbled herself slowly back to the waking world looking supremely irritated, but her expression softened when she remembered where she was. Grudgingly, she allowed Harry to pull her to her feet and the two of them trudged up the stairs in silence.

Despite what Mrs. Weasley had said, Harry was no longer tired. Seeing Hermione covered in bandages and Tonks covered in blood, and then hearing about their fight in Brighton had reawakened his questioning mood. However, one look at Hermione's drained face was enough to make him reconsider his questioning session, at least for now.

The door on the landing leading to Ginny's room was locked. Hermione's head leaned sleepily against Harry's shoulder as he fumbled in his pocket for his wand. He tapped it against the door, whispering, "_Alohomora,_" and stuffed it back in his pocket.

"Sorry, Harry, I'm really very tired," said Hermione, smiling apologetically, as though she could sense his desire for conversation. "We can talk in the morning, okay?"

"We'd better," he replied in a mock-warning tone. "Or else I'll spend all day brooding about it, and then you'll be sorry."

"Prat," she managed to scoff. Punching him in the side, she closed the door.

Harry stood on the landing for what seemed to be a long time. He was torn between respecting Dumbledore's wish to be alone with Tonks and heading upstairs, or going back down to find out what the headmaster was still hiding. Hadn't he said, during their discussion at the end of last term, that he regretted not telling Harry about a matter of such importance as the prophecy that foretold his purpose? What was it this time that the headmaster could not say in front of him?

He shook his head. Once, there was a time when he would have happily skipped upstairs to grab his Invisibility Cloak or one of the twins' Extendable Ears before returning downstairs to eavesdrop. But then, he realized, he would be succumbing again to the arrogance and presumption of his own importance that had led to Sirius' death. The very thought made him shiver.

In the end, Harry retired upstairs. He entered Ron's room, finding his fiery-haired friend sprawled out on top of his covers, snoring loudly. He walked softly over to the bed on the other side of the room, and gently lifted his trunk and Hedwig's cage, placing them on the floor. He'd deal with them in the morning, he told himself, and he placed his glasses on the nightstand, intending to at least try to get some shut-eye.

Several minutes later, he became aware of loud voices coming from downstairs. Or rather, one loud voice and one quiet. In between Ron's snores, he could hear Tonks faintly, with pauses that probably signaled Dumbledore's softer responses. He considered briefly the possibility of questioning Tonks instead of Dumbledore, but he realized that if it were Tonks' business that they were arguing about, there was probably very little that had to do with him.

Harry had just resigned himself to waiting on his back for sleep to take him, when he heard footsteps on the stairwell outside. He quickly rolled over onto his side and feigned sleep, although it was probably just Mrs. Weasley heading upstairs to wake Arthur for the next shift.

The footsteps suddenly tapped an irregular beat, and there was the sound of a collision and something breaking. Whoever it was muttered something that sounded like an oath, and there was a pause. Harry presumed that they were fixing whatever was broken. Shortly, the footsteps continued and came to a stop outside the door to Ron's bedroom. The door opened, and Harry snapped his eyes shut.

Whoever it was paused at the door, before crossing the room. Harry's eyes snapped opened again when the person took a seat at the foot of his bed.

"Wotcher, 'Arry. I knew you'd be awake."

"Tonks?"

Harry sat up, confused. Sure enough, there she was, purple hair and all. He scrambled for his glasses and put them on.

"You aren't dead tired, are you?"

"N – no," he replied, sitting up. "What are you doing here? Not to be rude, I mean, of course, but – "

Tonks smiled.

"No worries, I should be apologizing anyway for barging in. Do you feel up to a short chat? I've got to be back in London tomorrow afternoon for an assignment, and now's the only time I've got."

Harry wondered what on earth Tonks would want to discuss with him. He'd been in the Auror's company several times, but had never really gotten to know her on a personal level, though she was related to Sirius. She had given him a rather nice Christmas present to cheer him up, though – a miniature Firebolt to make up for his real one having been taken away by Umbridge the previous year. He consented anyway, and Tonks led him quietly downstairs.

On the landing below, Harry noticed that a vase containing a set of flowers looked decidedly devoid of the water he was sure it had been holding when he passed it earlier.

"Tonks, was that you – ?" he asked, pointing to it. She winced, nodding.

"Yeah, probably best not to mention that to Molly. Here, let me; _Aguamenti!_" A small amount of water trickled out of her wand and into the vase.

Harry followed Tonks out the front door and around to the Weasleys' garage, which had housed Mr. Weasley's flying Ford Anglia before he and Ron crashed it at Hogwarts. He looked mystified when Tonks handed him a Ministry broomstick.

"Where are we going?" he asked, mounting it.

"Just to the top of the house," replied Tonks.

He was slightly disappointed. Flying was one of the activities that Harry enjoyed most. In retrospect, it would probably have helped him cope with his loss of Sirius, if he'd been able to fly back at Privet Drive. He could ride the wind, his mind not focusing on anything in particular, and express any anger or frustration in a series of dives and feints.

He made a mental note to go flying tomorrow, and instead followed Tonks peaceably as she led the way to the top of the Burrow.

As they floated gently upwards, the lights on the ground floor of the house extinguished. Looking down, Harry could see a dark shape with a tall hat making its way towards an opening in the grass, which could only be Dumbledore returning to the Apparition clearing.

They landed on the slanted roof of the topmost part of the structure, and sat with their backs to the largest of the five chimneys, and broomsticks resting across their laps. They remained silent for a few moments. Harry looked over at Tonks curiously, but found that he could not distinguish much more than her silhouette against the starry night. The moon was at the end of its waning phase by this time of month, and it was but a tiny sliver in the sky.

"Dumbledore told me about the prophecy," she said abruptly, jarring Harry back to his senses.

"He what – oh, that."

If there were anything in particular he'd been expecting to hear from Tonks, it hadn't been the prophecy. Several unpleasant and previously suppressed thoughts came bubbling back into his mind. And why had Dumbledore told Tonks, of all people, about the prophecy anyway?

"What do you think?"

Harry furrowed his brow. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about the prophecy with anyone; and even if he had wanted to, he wasn't sure that Tonks would be his first choice.

Still, he reasoned, it would probably be best if he did have someone to bounce his thoughts off of, and as far as he could tell, he wasn't in danger of Tonks becoming judgmental of, well, whatever he said. After an additional minute of silence, it became apparent that Tonks was allowing him to decide what to say to her.

"The prophecy said, '_neither one can live while the other survives,_'" he said, finally. "What do I think about that? I haven't made up my mind yet."

He felt her gaze turn towards him, but he pressed on.

"It's inevitable, isn't it? Even without the prophecy. He'd come after me anyway," he said, a bitter tone now intruding into his voice. "I suppose all I can do now is find out what Dumbledore is planning to teach me, and then go find Voldemort –"

"And then be tortured for a few minutes, and die," finished Tonks, flatly.

Harry blinked.

"Or if you're really lucky, you'll stumble into some of his stupider Death Eaters and die right away," she continued. "Was that seriously your plan? 'Step one: place wand in hand, step two: charge at the Dark Lord'?"

Harry couldn't decide whether or not to be affronted. He _definitely _wasn't expecting this.

"I – "

"Harry James Potter, have you given that prophecy any thought _at all_?"

He froze before he said anything. He had been just about to let himself get riled up and put on the defensive, but this question really stung. No, he hadn't really given it that much thought, but he'd been so busy worrying about Sirius' death, and what he could have done to prevent it.

"You've been thinking about Sirius, haven't you."

Why, that –

He rounded on Tonks, meaning to say something, anything, as long as it would convey his anger. His eyes had, by this time, adjusted somewhat to the dim light, and he could make out enough of the expression on her face to know that she didn't mean to be accusatory. It prevented him from yelling at her, but when he did speak, it was with a bite in his voice.

"So what if I have? I've got the right. He was my godfather, and I'm responsible for his death. And who's to say that I wouldn't have given the prophecy any thought? I just said I hadn't made up my mind at the moment, that's all," He turned away, finding it unexpectedly hard to meet her eyes. "I wouldn't expect you to understand; or anyone really," he added bitterly.

"Is that what you think?"

For the second time, Harry blinked in surprise. _What_?

"What?"

"You don't think that _some of us_ could possibly feel the same way? He might have not been the closest person I had to my father like he was to you, and he might not have been the last tenuous link to my family that I'd ever had in my life, but Sirius was my cousin, and my friend, Harry."

Harry felt the angry reply on his tongue fall away. Tonks continued to speak, now looking up at the stars.

"I was at Grimmauld Place an awful lot last year," she said quietly. "He'd always talk to me. I don't think he had much in the way of company. He was always so gloomy. I remember I finally got him to laugh by making faces at his mother's portrait.

"I was wounded in January, while on an assignment. The circumstances – and no, I can't tell you, not right now. The circumstances were too shady to keep me in St. Mungo's, so Sirius took care of me in Grimmauld Place. Everyone else was in and out of that house, even Remus, and not just because of his transformations. So naturally, we got to know each other quite well."

Harry found himself wondering why Sirius had never talked to him about Tonks. Then he realized that there hadn't really been any time for them to talk about things like . . . life. He felt guilty and grateful at the same time. He hadn't been able to talk to Sirius, to keep him company, because he'd been too afraid of Sirius being discovered, especially by Umbridge. At least Sirius hadn't been completely alone; he'd had Tonks to keep him company.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Tonks. I didn't mean to insinuate . . . "

"I know you didn't, Harry," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder briefly. "I do, however, think you should know – you're not the only one to blame for his death."

Harry looked at her confusedly.

"Sure, you were led to think that Voldemort was torturing him. Though, if he'd done that to me, I wouldn't even have bothered checking with Kreacher; I'd just have gone peeling off to the Ministry myself.

"You're right in thinking you're at fault, of course. Maybe if _you'd_ been successful in Occlumency, this would never have happened. Maybe if _Snape_ hadn't been such a failure of a teacher, you would have mastered it.

"Dumbledore blames himself, naturally, for keeping Sirius locked up in Grimmauld place, looking for an excuse to get out. But I don't believe that in the slightest, because Sirius would have gone to your aid anyway, even if he hadn't been looking for a reason to escape.

"What I blame Dumbledore for is how he treated _you_. If _Dumbledore_ hadn't been so protective of you in the most convoluted fashion, _he_ could have taught you Occlumency instead, and maybe then, you'd have succeeded.

"Or maybe not. You-Know-Who is one of the most powerful wizards we've ever known, after all. Honestly, I don't think I'm totally convinced that a little bit of Occlumency hocus-pocus by a fifth year student would have kept him out."

She turned her head back to look at him, and now Harry could see her clearly. Her expression was hard to fathom, but it was intense and alive with purpose, and he found that could not look away from her. She continued to speak, and Harry hung on to her every word.

"My point is, Harry, there are more forces at work than just _you_. The world does not revolve around you, Mr. Potter, and no," – Harry had opened his mouth to protest – "I don't mean to accuse you of anything. Just listen to what I have to say.

"Remus told me that he blames himself for Sirius' death too, you know. He was the last person to see Sirius before he left Grimmauld place, and he knew that we were all walking into a trap. He still beats himself up about it nowadays, because he knows he could have saved his old friend if he'd just, if he'd just – "

Tonks choked for a moment. Harry reached over awkwardly and patted her back. She looked at him gratefully before continuing.

"And the last person I blame for Sirius' death – is _me._"

Harry looked at her incredulously.

"What? Why? You said yourself that you were the one who kept him company, when everyone else had him cooped up by himself. I don't think he could fault you for being exactly where he needed you."

"Harry, who killed Sirius, in the end?"

Harry thought for a moment, wondering if the question had to do with any of the people she had just listed. Then he realized that she wasn't posing a conundrum, but instead she had meant her question in the literal sense.

"Well, Bellatrix Lestrange was the one who pushed him into the veil – "

"And who was the person who failed to kill Bellatrix before she got to Sirius?"

A moment of silence. And then Harry began to protest.

"What? You can't mean that! You couldn't stop her from pushing him in – you were incapacitated!"

"And why, exactly, was I incapacitated, Harry?"

Harry looked at her blankly.

"Er – . . . because Bellatrix – ?"

"I was incapacitated because I was too absorbed in my own shame and hatred for her. She's my aunt, you know. She's one of _them_, one of the ones that turned their back on my mother. I wanted her to pay for her vile, idiotic pureblooded mania – so I got careless.

"This is going to come across sounding very conceited, but I am the best duelist in the Order. After Dumbledore, of course," she amended. "But that's beside the point. The point is that I could have won that duel. I could have killed her and made sure that she would never, _ever_ harm anybody I loved again.

"But instead, I got so caught up in my stupid game that I became sloppy. Spells were hitting me that I should have been able to parry, but I didn't think too much of them because, after all, it was just my stupid aunt. What harm could she possibly do to me?

"Of course, she got me in the end. Now look where it's gotten me. A good friend of mine is dead, and that wretched aunt is still alive."

They sat in silence. Harry desperately wanted to say something – but what could he say? 'It's not your fault'? Better than nothing.

"It's not your – " he began quietly, but she cut him off.

"Don't say it," she said, shaking her head. "Unless you want to make yourself into a liar. It's as much your fault as it is mine, Dumbledore's, Remus', Snape's . . . " She trailed off for a moment before continuing. "We can't do anything about it now. He's dead. Period. Nothing will bring him back. Nada. What we _can_ do is move forward and prove that he didn't die a meaningless death. He died fighting for our cause, so I'll gladly return the favor. Which brings us back to the original discussion."

"The prophecy?" asked Harry, and she nodded. Tonks had been speaking for quite a while, and Harry felt that he should return the favor by at least contributing to the discussion.

"Well, I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it. I only know that I have to face Voldemort eventually." Here, Harry noted that Tonks did not flinch when she heard Voldemort's name, even though she didn't use it herself.

"I always thought it would all turn out okay if I just did what Dumbledore wanted me to, though I guess it doesn't make much sense to trust him on everything, since what happened last year," he mused.

Tonks tilted her head to the side.

"Well, I haven't made up my mind on that either," she said. "Dumbledore definitely has his faults, even though it's hard to see them as a student. But you can't just overlook him, because he knows things that you simply can't learn anywhere else. Private lessons from the headmaster – you have to realize that that's a very generous gift that you're not likely to come across ever again.

"All the same, you can't just stock up on a bunch of advanced magic tricks and expect to go sauntering off to face You-Know-Who. You're forgetting that he has a lot of tricks of his own – not to mention that you also have to get past his army.

"And in order to do that, you need your friends. I know what you did on the way to the Ministry last month, Harry. Hermione told me all about it on the way here. From the way she said it, you apparently tried to leave your friends behind several times."

Harry flinched inwardly, remembering Hermione's accusation of his 'saving-people thing.'

"And that's exactly what I meant earlier at the beginning of this discussion. If you just charge in by yourself with your wand and your angsty, angsty soul, intending to spare us all from death and sacrifice, you'll fulfill the prophecy, all right. You'll fulfill it because he'll destroy you. And then he'll come after us.

"Please tell me that you didn't think that the prophecy could go only one way?" she asked, looking him over.

Harry felt his face go numb. To tell the truth, he _had_ only considered the possibility of fighting Voldemort by himself and, of course, winning. Tonks was right, naturally. The prophecy could easily also be fulfilled by his death at Voldemort's hands. Of course he'd been _conscious_ of that fact – he'd been frightened ever since he'd heard the prophecy, hadn't he? He'd just never considered it as the other _option_. The _other_, arguably more plausible way to fulfill the prophecy.

Once again, the silence settled in as Harry and Tonks each recounted the conversation in their heads. Harry had taken the broomstick off his lap and placed it between them, leaning it against the chimney. His fingers idly twisted a thread that was hanging loose from his pullover.

"Tonks . . . " he said again, unsure of himself. She looked over at him, waiting patiently.

"If I have to kill him, I'll have to go through his Death Eaters, somehow, won't I? And some of them, I'll probably have to kill. That would make me just like they are, then. A murderer; and then if I learn whatever Dumbledore wants me to learn, I'll become a murderer with a lot of power. Like Voldemort."

Harry looked up again at Tonks, almost pleadingly. However, she wasn't looking at him. She was looking up at the stars, her expression unreadable. Harry waited. Finally, after a minute, she spoke.

"Nine."

Harry wasn't sure what she meant.

"What are you – "

"Nine. That's how many people I've killed in my life," she said, definitively.

"I killed my first Death Eater while I was sixteen – that was two years before you'd even heard the name 'Hogwarts.' There wasn't even a _whisper _of You-Know-Who going around at that time. We were all perfectly content, covering up the scars of the last war.

"Out of nowhere, a group of former Death Eaters attacked the town where my parents were living. Not even because they were out to 'cleanse the gene pool' or anything like that. They did it because they were _bored_. It was pure serendipity for them when they discovered my dad's house – he's a Muggle-born, you know.

"My mother was out of the house that evening – she'd gone to dinner with some of her clients. It was just me and my dad. We heard them coming down the street, but we never imagined . . .

"One of them came bursting in the door, and he _must_ have been close to the Lestranges or the Malfoys because he recognized my dad immediately, from the wedding photos, he said.

"I didn't know a lot about Death Eaters at the time, but I knew he was after my dad for some reason. So I tried to defend my dad, but the Death Eater disarmed me without even saying a word. He tried to curse me then, but my dad pushed me away, and he got hit by the Cruciatus Curse instead."

Tonks shivered and Harry felt a great sympathy for her. He reached over and patted her hand, and she looked at him with gratitude, and continued with a sadness and hollowness to her voice.

"I couldn't stand to hear my dad scream like that, and I thought it was never going to end. So I crept out of the entrance hall and into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and – " She made a jerky stabbing motion with her hand.

"That incident was hushed up by the Ministry, because no one wanted to even think about Death Eaters by that point. We'd just gotten past the last war, and wounds take time to heal. They couldn't jeopardize the hard-earned peace that we had only so recently gained. But I never forgot.

"After my seventh year, I immediately went into Auror training, and I've been tracking down Death Eaters and dark wizards ever since. I did some isolated cases before You-Know-Who came back during my training, and after I graduated I even went overseas to do a joint operation with the United States Auror Corps. Last month when the Brockdale Bridge was destroyed, I tracked down all of the Death Eaters involved, and killed them. And then when the two Death Eaters attacked the Granger family yesterday, I killed them too.

"Am I a murderer? To some people, maybe. To others, probably.

"I'm no philosopher, Harry. I don't have the luxury of long hair, or time to spend debating these questions to death; nor do I want to. All I can to do is make peace with myself, and that should be enough for now.

"The bottom line is that you have to come to terms with what you have to do, one way or another. If you don't, you will go mad with guilt. Scrimgeour, my old boss, knew a lot of both Aurors and Auror candidates who simply cracked under the stress because they couldn't handle the pressure. When the time came, in battle, to decide who lived and who didn't, whether on their side or the enemies' – they couldn't take it.

"I don't know that anything I say here will be able to help you decide what to believe. But I will tell you this – the most important factor, the linchpin of your guilt and innocence, is not how you and the Death Eaters are alike. It is how you are different."

Harry felt a strange sense of recognition. He had a dim recollection of a very wise old man saying those words to him, once upon a time.

"These Death Eaters we fight – they are murderers, beyond question or doubt. They have killed cruelly, in cold blood and for sport, and they revel in it. They enjoy it, even thirst for it. Unchecked, they will continue to kill, and you and I both know that they have the capacity to kill thousands more, even millions. They will not stop their campaign of cruelty until they have made the world into their own private playground.

"These are You-Know-Who's finest servants. After the first war, many convicted Death Eaters plead the Imperius defense, claiming that they only did You-Know-Who's bidding under the influence of that curse. We know better than that. We had no way to prove them guilty in a court of law, but we know for a fact that no one takes the Dark Mark upon their arm without You-Know-Who's express confidence.

"If You-Know-Who had to force anyone to join his army, well, that's exactly where they would have gone – into his army. Everyone that he ever coerced, threatened, bullied, or Imperiused into serving him fell into the ranks of his regular army. Only those who matched him in cruelty, and who truly believed in his crusade were admitted into his circle of Death Eaters."

Tonks stood up, and pulled Harry to his feet. They leaned against the chimney, and Harry, sensing the conversation was drawing to a close, picked up his broomstick.

"Harry, you will probably become a killer," said Tonks bluntly. "It's the fault of this whole wretched business of war and that stupid prophecy. Some good people will die, and some of the gentlest people you know will have blood stained on their hands before this is through. Personally, though, I don't think you'll become a murderer. You're far too kind-hearted for that." She finished her last statement definitively, with her arms crossed and a fleeting hint of pride in her voice.

"Thanks, Tonks, I – the same goes for you." Harry smiled at her. For the first time that summer, he finally felt true relief. He felt as though a great suffocating mass had been taken off his shoulders. He hadn't completely found solace, and there was still some doubt in his heart – but in the early hours of that warm night in July, Harry James Potter grew up a little more.

"You're too kind, Harry," said Tonks, stretching her arms. "I would love to talk with you again. In fact, I insist on it. But it's probably close to three o'clock now, and Molly will end up blaming me if you can't get up tomorrow morning."

"Just one more thing, Tonks," said Harry, remembering one last detail. "Dumbledore told you about the prophecy?"

"He did."

"Did he also tell you about those lessons that he wants to give me?"

Tonks looked surprised at first, but then an odd look crossed her face. What he saw, Harry was not exactly sure, but it looked like a mixture of apprehension and resignation.

"He did, Harry," she said, finally.

"What did you think of them?" he asked, realizing that asking her for specifics was probably a lost cause.

"In all honesty," she said, looking him straight in the eye, "if I were you, I'd definitely say no."

* * *

Next chapter: déjà vu

**About this story: **Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders and its sequel take place after Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. They are meant to be read in place of Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders is planned to take place in two parts, with fifteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

PDF and EPUB formats available through a link in the author profile.

Thanks for reading!


	5. Ch5: Reunion at the Burrow

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _

**Author's Note:** To everyone who was following this story before the author(s) went missing . . . Sorry about that. My/our bad.

To new readers: hello.

This chapter doesn't diverge too much from the book.** Actually it's pretty much almost the same as _An Excess of Phlegm_ from HBP**. The next one diverges though. A lot. And the one after that. Muahah.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Five

"Reunion at the Burrow"

19 September 2010

FanFictionDotNet Edit

He raced through a deserted town. Its thatched-roof cottages stared balefully at his plight through clouded windows as he raced past, followed only by his tracks in the ankle-deep snow. One dilapidated tavern in particular caught his attention and he brought his momentum to bear and charged into the door, breaking the old, brittle thing off its hinges.

Panic and despair gripped him as he scanned the small bar area, covered by a layer of dust. It had looked so familiar from the outside. He was sure he had been here before, and could not think where else to retrace his steps. He rifled through all the cupboards and drawers, hurriedly tossing aside their contents in his frenzied search for the one thing that mattered in this moment – the Dark Lord _had_ her, and he was absolutely powerless to do anything. He was without his wand.

He could not remember a time when he had ever lost it. It had been as close to his person as anything had ever been. It had been taken from him in the past, unwillingly. He knew it had to be here, but something kept it from him. He shouted in frustration, but a movement caught his eye and he was reminded that there was a stairwell in the rear that led to several bedrooms. He made a mad dash to the stairs, and as he rounded the corner swinging along the banister, he saw it. His wand, however, had been disturbed by his movements and fell off of the mantle on which it had been placed, and rolled across the floor into a bedroom. Sprinting after it, Harry shouted in triumph as he saw it roll under an armoire in the corner of the room.

But as he dove for it, his breath caught in his chest and his heart stopped dead. He was too late, and he knew it.

The next moment, he was being shaken lightly by the shoulders, and someone was calling his name.

"Harry? Harry!"

Harry sat up quickly, still breathing heavily as though he had been sprinting a short distance. In his panic, he had not yet registered where he was; simply that he still did was not in possession of his wand. He spun halfway out of his bed and his hand found the nightstand where he vaguely remembered placing the object of his search the night before. Not finding it there, he began looking around, still half-dreaming.

"Harry, what are you looking for–?"

"Wand!" he replied, not thinking, "He has her, Ron! My wand, I – oh." He stopped rummaging and looked around. "Oh, it was just . . . ah."

"Bad dream, mate?" his best friend of six years was standing over him, seemingly undecided on which course of action to take. "Was it a . . . you know, one of _those_ dreams?" Ron was of course referring to the strangely prophetic dreams that Harry had experienced the previous year, which had turned out to be the machinations of the Dark Lord himself, intending to lead Harry astray. It had worked, and Harry's company had played straight into his hands.

Harry let out a long breath to steady himself.

"No, just . . . a bad dream, that's all."

"You sure?" Ron was looking at him as if he were unsure of Harry's stability. He hated it when he did that.

"Yeah, it didn't feel like that. Just a normal nightmare."

Ron chuckled. "Nightmares are normal now, huh."

Harry shrugged.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Can't remember much of it, really. Someone was in trouble, and I was looking for my wand, and I guess I'd lost it because I was looking for it in this bedroom." Harry shook his head. "Didn't make too much sense anyway, I guess."

"Ah, it happens. Good to see you though, mate," Ron said, brightening up. "When did you get in? Mum said to let you sleep in a bit." He sat down on his own bed, opposite Harry, who in the meantime had located his wand and retrieved it from the floor beside the nightstand. Finding his glasses, he shoved them onto his face as well.

"Dumbledore and I arrived a bit after midnight, I think." He said. "Hermione not long after that. Have you seen her yet? Is she alright?"

Ron nodded but looked grave.

"Yeah, she told me about what happened. She was awake about an hour ago. Didn't want to think the Death Eaters would try something like that. It makes sense though, with the publicity and all, but bloody hell . . ."

Harry swung himself out of bed. He opened his trunk, intending to put on a clean shirt, when he realized that the piles of laundry had become mixed when he dumped them inside during his hurried exodus from Number Four, Privet Drive. He quickly located what looked like the least crumpled of the lot, and put it on. Ron, meanwhile, brought him up to speed on the recent events.

"I reckon Dumbledore told you about the old headquarters?"

Harry nodded in affirmation.

"It's been pretty busy around here, since the Order moved in and all." He said, fiddling with a toy chaser in Chudley Cannons robes, who putted around on a miniature broomstick. "We've enchanted the house and the grounds to make it safe and whatnot. Can't even floo in, thanks to Fred and George. Unplottable, too. The owls are having a hard time adjusting. Sometimes Pig gets lost for a couple of hours in the field out there." He pointed out the window.

Ron's summer, as always, seemed a lot more exciting to Harry than his own. Ron probably did not see how being conscripted into helping Arthur and Bill Weasley construct the various additions to the Burrow could be that exciting, but Harry assured him that it was doubtlessly preferable to the cold indifference or outright disgust he'd endured for the first few weeks of the summer. He didn't mention the weeks where he had just lain on his bed, uncaring.

"Hey, how come you never responded to any of our letters?"

"Letters? Oh, I – er . . ." The question had caught Harry off guard. He'd forgotten that he'd forgotten to respond to the letters he received from Ron and Hermione. He had read them of course, but he never did find himself in a mood to write back, nor could he think of anything to write back in the first place.

"I was so busy, you know, thinking." He said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "Had a lot on my mind after, well . . ." He made a vague gesture behind him with his hand.

Ron nodded sagely as if this had made sense. Harry was grateful to avoid scrutiny, but he knew he'd need to come up with something better than that for Hermione. She'd probably be able to see through it anyway.

"Harry, you're awake!" came a voice from the door. Hermione was leaning into the doorway, and seeing him awake, made her way inside. She was followed closely by Ginny, who cradled Crookshanks in her arms. Hermione strode across the room and took a seat beside Ron, leaning slightly forward with her hands on the bed. Ginny sat beside Harry, and Crookshanks stepped lightly off her arm to paw at a loose thread on his sleeve.

"You look tired, Harry. What time did you get in?" asked Ginny, stroking the bushy tail that waved in front of her.

"Not too long after midnight, I think," he responded. "I was up for a bit talking to Tonks, though. How's your hand, Hermione?" He pointed at the bandaged extremity.

"Oh, it's fine," she said, waving it off. "Just a small burn."

"Tonks said you were brilliant yesterday!" said Ron, apparently recalling a conversation from that morning. "She said you almost took out Dolohov all on your own."

Hermione made a sound that was half exasperation, half resignation.

"He disarmed me. Besides, he almost took off my head before that. Where's Tonks though?"

"Oh, I saw her off just before I went to wake you up," said Ginny, looking up from Crookshanks. "She went to relieve Elphias Doge at the Rook, so he could eat."

"The what?" asked Harry, looking back to Ginny.

"The Rook. It's where Luna lives with her dad. It's not that far from here, actually – she's visited before. She never did tell us when they'd be coming back from Sweden, or where they even went. So, the Order's been taking turns looking out for them in case they come back."

"Couldn't you just send an owl?"

"Too risky," she said. "It would be a dead giveaway for the Death Eaters."

"How are you, Harry? Did the Muggles treat you okay?" Harry noticed that Hermione was looking him over. It seemed as though she were trying to determine if he was sick or troubled. He figured it had to do with Sirius, but he had no intention of bringing the subject back up this morning, feeling as though he'd dealt with it sufficiently for now after speaking with Tonks the night before. He was quite ready to focus on something other than his godfather's death for a while. To avoid further discussion of it, he changed the subject.

"Pretty much the same as always. They didn't talk to me much, which worked for me. What's the time? Have I missed breakfast?"

"It's after lunch, mate. Mum's bringing you up a tray. She said she thinks you got skinnier," Ron scoffed. "What else has been going on?"

"Well, not much. I've been at my aunt and uncle's all summer after all."

"Oh come on, Harry!" Ron persisted. "You were with Dumbledore just last night!"

"Oh, we didn't do much. He just took me out for coffee. We Apparated there, and then here to your place."

"You Apparated?" asked Hermione, skeptically.

"Oh, no, Dumbledore Apparated. I was just along for the ride–"

"He can do side-along Apparition?" asked Ginny. "It's supposed to be really hard."

"It's _Dumbledore_, Ginny," said Ron, "If anyone could do it, he can." Still, he looked impressed. "What was it like?"

"Disgusting," said Harry. "Felt like I was being squeezed through a pipe. What's the matter, Hermione?"

She was still eyeing him as though she expected him to break down at any moment. Hurriedly, she composed a smile and leaned back.

"Nothing, Harry."

Just then, the sounds of a faint argument made themselves heard. Evidently, this did not bode well for either Hermione or Ginny, because they suddenly looked tired and exasperated.

"Here we go again."

Harry looked at them, confused.

"Ugh, she talks to me as if I were a first year!" said Ginny. "I can't stand it anymore!" She rose to her feet and made as if to leave the room, when into the open doorway swept a young woman with beauty that took Harry's breath away. Fortunately, he recovered in time to kick Ron in the shin, who looked like he actually was suffocating. The woman carried a tray laden heavily with food.

"'Arry!" she exclaimed throatily. "'Ow are you doing!"

"Fleur!" he said in mild surprise. "I didn't know you were–"

She was already bearing down on him, and as he regained his breath for the second time, he saw that Mrs. Weasley had followed her upstairs, arms folded across her chest, and looking cross.

"There was no need to bring up the tray; I was about to do it myself!"

"Eet was no trouble," said Fleur Delacour, setting the tray on the bed beside Harry. The tray scrambled to balance itself on the sheets with its four wooden legs. Fleur kissed Harry on each cheek, which burned where her mouth had been. "I 'ave waited so long to see 'im. My sister Gabrielle, she never stops talking about 'Arry, and 'ow it was that 'e saved her from the lake. She cannot wait to see 'im again!"

"Oh . . ." said Harry, trying to clear his throat. "Is she here?"

"Oh, no!" said Fleur with a laugh, "But next summer – do you not know? Bill and I are going to be married!"

"Oh," said Harry again. Mrs. Weasley looked supremely uncomfortable, and Hermione and Ginny were staring determinedly into space. "Uh – that's . . . that's great Fleur! Congratulations!"

She was wringing her hands in excitement.

"Bill is very busy at ze moment, at Gringotts. They will only let me work part-time there, but zey are very helpful with my Eenglish. He brought me 'ere to meet 'is family properly. And then they told me you would be coming! Ah, well, enjoy, 'Arry!" She kissed him again, and glided out of the room as gracefully as she had entered.

Mrs. Weasley made a noise somewhere between impatience and annoyance.

"Mum hates her," said Ginny in an undertone to Harry.

"I do not hate her!" her mother replied crossly. "I just think they've hurried into this engagement!"

"They've been dating a year," said Ron, who still hadn't recovered his wits.

"That's not very long at all! Oh, it's all You-Know-Who's fault. With people thinking they could be dead at any moment, there've been marriages left and right–"

"Isn't that how you and dad got together?" asked Ginny, sitting back down.

"Your father and I were made for each other," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "But Bill could do so much better. Well, I'd better get back to the dishes. Eat up while it's still warm, Harry."

As she left the room, Harry couldn't help but notice that Ron still seemed slightly dazed.

"Don't you get used to her after a while? How long's she been here?"

"You do, she just takes you by surprise every so often . . ."

"It's pathetic!" exclaimed Hermione. "I've only seen her a few times since I just got here this morning, and he's already been 'taken by surprise' three times."

"I'd much rather have Tonks as a sister," said Ginny. "Mum keeps trying to hook her and Bill up, but it's not really working."

"She hasn't been much of a laugh lately, that's for sure," said Ron.

"Well, she still hasn't gotten over what happened, has she? I mean, he was her cousin!"

Harry sighed to himself resignedly behind his food. Did they really have to talk about this now?

"Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!" said Ron. "Sirius was in Azkaban for forever –"

"Actually they were pretty close," said Harry around a mouthful of eggs. He'd at least defend Tonks. "I was talking to her about him last night."

Hermione suddenly looked at him, remembering he was there, but shut her mouth when she couldn't decide what to say.

"She's been having trouble with her Metamorphosing," Ginny said, picking it up. "When she tries to change her looks, it doesn't work half the time."

"I didn't know that could happen," said Harry.

"I suppose if you're really down in the dumps –" Ginny was interrupted when Mrs. Weasley's head appeared around the door.

"Ginny," she whispered. "Come downstairs and help me with the dishes."

"I'm talking to this lot!" Ginny protested.

"Now!" said Mrs. Weasley, and she disappeared around the corner again.

"She only wants me there so she doesn't have to be alone with Fleur!" said Ginny crossly. She pranced to the door in an imitation of Fleur, and followed her mother down the stairs. Crookshanks leapt off the bed, abandoning his attempt to make the tray lose its balance, and followed her downstairs.

In the silence that followed her departure, Harry continued eating. He gestured for Ron and Hermione to help themselves. Hermione held up her hands, but Ron began picking at the stack of toast. Hermione busied herself rummaging in a box that had been on the other side of Ron's bed.

"Oh this is cute–!" Hermione said shortly. "I didn't know you had stuffed animals, Ron." She was holding a small stuffed yellow bird with big eyes and orange feet.

Ron shook his head.

"I'd be careful with that – it's not mine. Fred and George left it in here one day, but I never figured out what it's supposed to do."

"How's the shop doing?" asked Harry.

"They're doing real well," said Ron, his eyes wide. "Mum was surprised when she went to see their shop. She actually sounded impressed, and she told them they had a real talent for business. They've been up to their ears in Galleons! We haven't been yet, but Mum said we'll visit when we get our book lists."

"What about Percy? Has he been in touch again?"

"Nope," said Ron.

"But he knows your dad was right about Voldemort –"

"Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right," said Hermione.

"Sounds like him all right," Ron grunted.

"He's going to be giving me private lessons this year," said Harry.

Ron stopped chewing his toast and Hermione gripped the stuffed bird tightly.

"You kept that quiet!" accused Ron.

"I only just remembered," said Harry. "He told me when we went out to get coffee. Actually, he told me to decide and get back to him about it."

Ron was obviously impressed.

"Private lessons with Dumbledore! Why's he doing that, do you suppose?" He looked at Hermione, for her input. However, she shrugged, still clutching the bird.

Harry took a deep breath. He still hadn't told them that he had heard the prophecy, let alone what it had said. It was now or never.

"It's because of the prophecy. You know, the one Voldemort tried to get his hands on at the Ministry."

"But no one knows what it says, do they?" said Hermione, looking quickly at him. "It got smashed."

"The glass ball that got smashed wasn't the only record of the prophecy. Dumbledore has a memory of it in his Pensieve, since the prophecy was made out to him in the first place. It said, well . . ." Harry smiled wryly, suddenly seeing some humor in the situation. "You'd kinda expect it anyway, I think. It said I'm the one who's got to finish off Voldemort. Well, that's not exactly right – it said neither of us could live while the other survives."

Hermione and Ron didn't see what was funny. They sat in silence for almost a minute. Then there was a loud bang, and Hermione vanished behind a curtain of feathers.

"Hermione!" shouted Harry and Ron in alarm. They had risen to their feet, when Hermione emerged, brushing away feathers, still clutching the stuffed bird. It looked smaller, and had taken on the pink of a freshly-plucked chicken.

"I'm okay, never mind that now!" she said, her knuckles white. "Oh, Harry –! You're right, though. We wondered about it after we got back from the Ministry, because of what Malfoy said about it being about you and Voldemort, and we figured it was probably something like this . . ." She stared at him.

"You scared?" asked Ron quietly, still looking impressed.

"Not really," said Harry. "I mean, I was, the first time I heard it. But after I thought about it, I sort of figured that something like this was coming anyway."

"You know what this means, don't you?" asked Ron eagerly. "Dumbledore wouldn't be giving you lessons if he thought you were a goner – he must think you've got a chance, Harry! Just think, he could teach you to be a powerful duelist, just like him! Or maybe he's got another trick up his sleeve, like a secret weapon!"

Hermione interrupted before Ron could get carried away.

"That's true," she said, musing. "I wonder what he'll teach you. Probably really powerful defensive magic. I was reading about some counterspells this summer, and curse wards, and anti-jinxes. They sounded really difficult. When Dumbledore came to speak with my parents, I got to try some of them out with him, and they were still really difficult, even with two people and two wands working it –"

"Hang on, you got to do magic?" interrupted Harry, surprised.

"Yes, why?" said Hermione, taken aback.

"You didn't get a letter from the Ministry or anything? Underage use of magic or whatnot?"

Hermione's eyes widened. It was evident that she hadn't thought of this.

"You're right, I didn't – but I was with Dumbledore, wasn't I? And that's not the point! I've got some books for you to read that might help with those lessons . . ."

"Maybe he's going to train you to be an Auror!" said Ron, a sudden light in his eyes.

Harry and Hermione looked at him incredulously, but he continued.

"No, no think about it! Whose job is it to track down You-Know-Who and kill him? And what's Harry got to do? Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Not . . . really," said Hermione. "Auror Basic School is supposed to be something like three years long, and I doubt even Dumbledore could –"

Harry faded out of the conversation for the moment. He was relieved beyond words that Ron and Hermione, despite being more worried than they acted, showed no signs or intentions of shrinking away, or treating him as though he'd caught a sickness. The fact that they had not left his side and remained there to support him gave Harry a sense of belonging that was worth far more to him than anything.

"Well," he said eventually. "I haven't actually agreed to the lessons yet. Dumbledore said to think it over and send him a response. I just wanted to see what you guys thought –"

"Say yes, of course!" Ron said, looking at him as though he were daft.

"Unless there's something the matter?" Hermione added tentatively.

"Well, no," he said hurriedly. "It's just that Dumbledore was sounding all ominous like something was going to go wrong, and Tonks was against it."

"She was?" asked Hermione, curiously.

"Ah, who cares?" said Ron, "Dumbledore's the one who's got a plan to get out of this mess. He probably knows what he's doing. I say go for it, mate."

* * *

The remainder of the weekend passed with little incident. Harry spent much of Saturday playing Quidditch with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Hermione's fear of broomsticks had lessened somewhat, but she was still dreadful at the sport. With Harry and Hermione playing against Ron and Ginny, the teams turned out to be well matched.

On Sunday, Bill had the day off from work and he and Ron showed Harry the construction that was currently underway at the Burrow. He learned that magic indeed was integral to the process, and that the structural supports were only added in later. That day, the Daily Prophet brought tidings of another wave of Dementor attacks, and still nobody could account for the increase in number in the swarm of Dementors – or rather, _degradation_ of Dementors, as taxonomists would have it. Later that day, Harry sent Hedwig to Dumbledore, with confirmation that he would indeed be taking up his offer of private lessons.

Monday morning found Harry, Ron, and Hermione at breakfast, waiting for the results of their O.. The two boys looked exceptionally disgruntled at having been pulled out of their beds at such an ungodly hour, despite Hermione's admonition that it was already past nine o'clock. It seemed as though she were on the verge of ripping her hair out. She impatiently paced around the kitchen, keeping her eyes on the window.

"Mrs. Weasley, you're quite sure no owls have arrived this morning?"

"Yes, dear," she said patiently. "Don't worry so much, they come every year and they always manage the trip just fine."

"Oh but the Burrow just became unplottable this year!" exclaimed Hermione in despair, "What if they have trouble adjusting, or just give up trying to find it? And I already know I messed up Ancient Runes, because I translated 'gosling' as 'goshawk' –"

"What difference does it make?" asked Harry curiously.

"Well, the correct translation becomes the basis for an ancient spell to conjure a bouquet of apple blossoms, but the one I wrote gives you Herpes . . ."

Harry snorted into his oatmeal.

"It was part of a Celtic fertility ritual! And the Defense practical was no good, and I thought Transfiguration went all right, but in retrospect –"

"Hermione, will you shut up, you're not the only one who's getting results back today!" said Ron, from his cereal.

"But I failed everything!" she said hysterically, slumping down into a chair, still staring out the window.

"What happens if we fail?" asked Harry.

"McGonagall said she deals with students who fail on a case by case basis," said Hermione, dejectedly. Harry's stomach sank.

"At Beauxbatons," Fleur said, coming out of the kitchen with another stack of toast, "we' ad our examinations after six years of study. I think eet was better, because we 'ad more time to prepare –"

Fleur was interrupted by Hermione's scream as she pointed out the window. Three owls in a wedge were flying directly towards the Burrow. Unexpectedly, a fourth owl descended from an unseen height and fell into formation beside them.

"That'll be Luna's, I reckon," said Ron, standing up. "Guess they're not back yet." Harry rose to join them at the window, and they lifted the wooden frame out of its slot.

"That leaves one for each of us," Hermione whispered, terrified. She gripped Harry's arm painfully.

The owls descended to shoulder-height and followed the path towards the house. Harry and Ron had just enough time to shift Hermione aside, for she was too busy wringing her hands to admit the owls. The four owls hovered once inside and landed neatly on the table in a line, extending their legs. Each was carrying a large square envelope.

Harry quickly found the owl holding his letter and untied the envelope from its leg. To his left, Ron was ripping open his own envelope, and to his right, Fleur was assisting Hermione, whose shaking hands were causing her bewildered owl to lose its balance. Mrs. Weasely had detached Luna's envelope from the latecoming owl, which made its way to the pitcher of orange juice at the opposite end of the table.

Harry slit the envelope open and unfolded the parchment.

**Ordinary Wizarding Level Results**

Pass Grades

Outstanding (O)

Exceeds Expectations (E)

Acceptable (A)

Fail Grades

Poor (P)

Dreadful (D)

Troll (T)

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy – A

Care of Magical Creatures – E

Charms – E

Defense Against the Dark Arts – O

Divination – P

Herbology – E

History of Magic – D

Potions – E

Transfiguration – E

Harry read the report over several times, allowing it to sink in – he had done better than he'd been expecting. Sure, he failed History of Magic and Divination, but who cared? He couldn't see himself studying those subjects seriously anyway. He'd exceeded expectations at Potions (especially his own), and the "Outstanding" in Defense Against the Dark Arts stood out at him like a fiery bastion of pride.

He looked around. Hermione was still absorbed in her paper, but Ron clapped him on the back, and thrust his own paper at Harry.

"Here, swap! Failed Divination and History, but otherwise, pretty okay!"

Harry looked at Ron's paper. Besides Harry's "Outstanding", they'd done pretty much the same.

"Knew you'd ace Defense," said Ron, hitting him on the shoulder again. "Guess we picked the right man for the job, hey?"

"Well done!" said Mrs. Weasley, ruffling Ron's hair. "Seven O.W.L.s! That's more than Fred and George combined!"

"Hermione?" said Ginny, who had come downstairs after hearing Hermione's scream. "How did you do?"

"Not . . . bad . . ."

"Oh bullocks," said Ron, whipping the paper out of her hand. Still seemingly in shock, she didn't react and just stood there.

"Nine 'Outstandings', and 'Exceeds Expectations' in Defense." He looked at her in mock incredulity. "You're actually disappointed, aren't you?"

Hermione shook her head, still with a blank look, but Harry laughed.

Mrs. Weasley brought out another platter of sausages in celebration, but as everyone resumed eating breakfast happily, he could not help but feel some regret. He was happy with his grades, of course, but he'd no longer be able to pursue the path of the Auror. He hadn't been expecting an "Outstanding," but Snape would never let him into the N.E.W.T. level potions class with the small black E stamped on his paper.

It had seemed like the right career path for him, and he couldn't think of anything else that he would do after graduation. It made sense, didn't it? After all, neither could live while the other survived.

* * *

**About this story: **Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders and its sequel take place after Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. They are meant to be read in place of Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . whatever. It's not like we're getting paid to do this. Write your own damn story.

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts. After Part I, the side story _In the Case of Hermione Jane Granger_ should be read before the reader continues to Part II, since Part II picks up at the exact same second when _The Case of Hermione_ ends.

The PDF form of this story was supposed to appear online at some point, but we don't know where the hell to put it.

Thanks for reading! Expect a new chapter . . . eventually.

Stay frosty.


	6. Ch6: So Don't You Even Try!

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _

**Author's Note:** This chapter was supposed to be longer. Around 7.5k words, if we guess correctly. It was also supposed to be done sooner. Unfortunately, midterms and other similarly awful things happened to the primary author, so it got cut short.

Anyway, a temporary site has been created with PDF and EPUB formats for this story! WOO! ALL RIGHT! The link is available in the author profile.

Happy belated Halloween . . . ?

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Six

"So Don't You Even Try!"

3 November 2010

FanFictionDotNet Edit

Harry was roused early on the morning of his sixteenth birthday by a soft gust of air that tickled his nose. This was the calm preceding the storm. He opened his eyes just in time to shut them again as a large mass of pillow caught him flat in the face.

"Ron! You didn't have to hit him!"

"Relax, Hermione. I used your pillow because it's softer!"

"That's not the p – why do you have my pillow?"

A shrug. "Because it's softer."

"That's not what I meant! Give it, oh for goodness' sake – happy birthday Harry!"

Harry groaned and sat up groggily, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. He'd been awake long after Ron had gone to bed. He had been pondering, with increasing confusion and restlessness, Dumbledore's cryptic words and the planned private lessons. Part of him was squirming with impatience for the summer to end, and the other was apprehensive and dubious. Both parts were craving information. Neither part had sufficient energy to actually grab the glasses, so his hand simply fell upon them and brushed them off the nightstand and onto the floor with a clatter.

Hermione barely suppressed a laugh, but Harry could briefly see the white of her teeth as she picked the glasses up off the floor and slid them onto his face.

"C'mon mate. Happy birthday, now get on up! Mum cooked everything we own this morning, and I'm _starving_."

"Oh hush, Ron," said Hermione, perching on the edge of Harry's bed. "And will you _put that back_ where you found it?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied, tossing the pillow up into the air and catching it repeatedly.

Harry pulled down his glasses far enough to rub his eyes.

"Thanks Hermione, Ron. What time is it?"

Ron scrunched up his face for a moment before replying, "Bit after nine, I think."

Harry groaned and dropped back down onto the bed with an arm over his eyes. Seconds later, the pillow thumped into his stomach.

"Ron!"

* * *

Harry soon discovered that Ron had only been exaggerating slightly, as Mrs. Weasley placed a gigantic stack of toast in front of him, beaming.

"Eat up, Harry, dear. We'll be out at Diagon Alley later, so we won't have much for lunch. Your booklists should be arriving any minute now."

Fleur and Bill left early for Gringotts, but not before promising that they had left Harry a present with Mrs. Weasley. Harry had tried to protest, but Bill simply laughed and clapped him solidly on the shoulder, and Fleur had swept him up and kissed him on each cheek, leaving him dazed and Ron looking slightly put out.

Not long after they left, Ron's litany of Puddlemere's recent successes on the Quidditch field was broken by a short proclamation from Ginny.

"Owls! Ron, help me, this window's stuck."

"Get Harry to do it."

"Ron!"

"Ow, hey, it was a joke!"

They lifted the window just in time for the leading owl to brush its pinions against their arms as they hastily stepped aside.

There were four owls in total, and finding no place to land on the food-laden table, they settled themselves upon various perches about the room. The one nearest to Harry dug its talons into the handle of a wicker fruit basket on the countertop. He stood up and reached over to untie the envelopes from its leg. Three of the owls, he noticed, bore two envelopes each, while the last one, which was engaged in an epic battle of will against Crookshanks, carried only one square envelope. Ginny took advantage of their staring contest to untie the envelope.

The owl hooted curiously after its leg was freed of its burden. Harry looked in the direction the owl's gaze indicated, and complied with its implicit request: he offered it a piece of bacon, which it took after holding his gaze in a moment of strigine regard. His mission fulfilled, Harry inspected the envelopes, and found that they were addressed to Ron.

"Here, swap."

Ron grunted and passed him his own envelopes.

"Does it really matter?" mused Hermione, "They're all the same anyway."

"Well, I only got one envelope," said Ginny, reseating herself at the table. She opened the envelope, and Mrs. Weasley came to inspect it over her shoulder.

"Ah, good, most of the books are the same as last year's – you can just use Ron's old books then, Ginny dear."

"It's not like he used them anyway," said Hermione with a small, knowing smile as she skimmed her own list.

Ron made a muffled noise of protest around a spoonful of eggs and sausage.

"We have to buy . . . a mantle?" asked Harry, reaching the end of his letter.

"Yeah, you know, since we're upperclassmen and all. Though, you'll have to buy a brooch to fasten it, I think. Ron and I are just supposed to use our Prefect badges."

Harry searched his memory, and recalled that he did sometimes see sixth and seventh years wearing an extra piece of black cloth around their shoulders over the school robes, fastened at the front with a badge that bore their house colors.

"Oh bull _shit_!"

"Ginny!" came Mrs. Weasley's scolding exclamation.

They all looked at her, wondering what had evoked such an outburst. She was holding Ron's second letter, which she had removed from its envelope.

"But!" she cried angrily "Look! Special lessons for upperclassmen?"

Harry furrowed his brow and hastily tore the top off his own envelope.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Dear Mr. Potter,

In light of the growing threat of the Dark Arts, we will be offering several accelerated courses in Defense Against the Dark Arts beginning in the fourth week of the coming term. These optional lessons are open to any and all interested Sixth and Seventh year students.

Your participation is greatly encouraged, and the required course materials will be provided free of charge. However, it is recommended that any applicants also purchase the following optional textbooks.

Underneath this was a long list of titles, some of which were by familiar authors, such as _Protection-Class Charms_ by Miranda Goshawk and _The Combative Arts_ by Arsenius Jigger. At the very bottom was Professor McGonagall's signature.

"Well, it's good to see our plans finally going into effect," said a voice in his ear. He jumped in his seat and twisted around to find Tonks reading the letter over his shoulder, with her hands wrapped around a mug of orange juice. She flashed him a grin and ruffled his hair. "Happy birthday, Harry!"

"Gah – thanks Tonks," he said, fending her off. "You were a part of this, then?"

"No, not directly," she said pleasantly, setting the mug down on the table. "I did recommend some of the books though.

He looked back at the list. It was a lot of books.

_Well, Hermione will be pleased._

He looked across the table to gauge her reaction, but Hermione had abandoned her list. Instead, she was staring curiously out the kitchen window.

"What . . . is that?" she asked concernedly, rising from her seat.

Harry turned to look and saw something black flying – no, falling? – out of the sky. It seemed to grow longer, and it behaved a lot like . . .

"Smoke?"

"It's an owl!" gasped Hermione, and stood aside from the window.

It was indeed an owl, trailing smoke, and it came crashing through the open window, catching its talons on the sill and tumbling onto the floor. It didn't stay there for long, because it gave a shrill, panicked cry and leapt up onto the table and tried frantically to douse itself in Tonks' mug of orange juice.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of the commotion, for the four owls that preceded it panicked at the sight of their comrade's distress and took flight, screeching about the Weasleys' kitchen and began wreaking havoc. Amid the clanging of pots and pans as they came unhooked from the walls, Harry heard Tonks shout, "Lovegoods!" Extracting himself from a potted vine that had been overturned on his head, Harry saw Tonks and Mrs. Weasley bolt through the door.

He began to run towards the door but stopped short as a feathered mass collided with the side of his head and reversed direction.

"Harry, help!" came a voice from his right. He looked over and saw Ginny struggling with the owl whose tail feathers were still smoking. She was holding the owl with her right arm and trying to gain enough control over it to snuff out its feathers with her left. Together, she and Harry managed to keep the owl still long enough for Harry to pat out the source of the smoke with a set of robes that had come off the coat rack. Nearby, Ron and Hermione were rescuing one of the owls that had managed to bury itself under a pile of recently washed dishes.

The moment he verified the refugee owl to be out of danger, Harry ran for the open door. His friends gaped for a moment and gave chase.

"No! Harry!"

He paid no attention, his feet pounding the ground as he sprinted towards the Weasleys' garage.

"Harry, wait!"

He spun around furiously after he had grabbed his Firebolt.

"Hermione, we can't wait. That owl came in _on fire_. Either it's really bad at flying, or Luna's in serious trouble."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Harry could almost see her mind racing behind her eyes, torn apart by anxiety.

"Please, listen –" pleaded Ginny.

"Harry, I know mate, it's Luna," said Ron, and Harry could see that he mirrored Hermione's consternation. "But Hermione's right – we can't go."

Harry mouthed wordlessly for a moment, infuriated.

"What do you mean we can't go? It's Luna! She fought beside us during the bloody battle at the Ministry! You can't possibly –"

"It's not that!" said Ginny quickly, "It's just . . . we can't get there!"

"Well we obviously won't get anywhere if we just stand here!" Harry shouted back, reaching for another broom, and shoving it into Ron's reluctant arms.

"Harry, we don't know _where to go_."

That caught his attention. He turned and stared at them blankly for a moment.

"What? I thought – didn't you say she lived around here?"

"We've never been," said Ron, his knuckles white as he gripped the broomstick. "I mean, Bill's been over a couple times . . ."

"Ginny?" asked Harry.

"Luna came over here a few times, but that's it . . ." she said, hesitantly.

"Did no one ever mention . . . even what direction?"

No one said anything. Harry was lost for words. His mind raced. Time was passing, precious seconds slipping past as his friends simply stared at him, all of them fearing the worst. Out of desperation, he turned to Hermione again.

"Hermione, how do you Apparate?"

It took a moment for his words to register, and when they did, she was less than thrilled.

"Harry, you can't Apparate."

He resisted the urge to throw his hands up into the air and scream in frustration. She seemed to sense this and continued in a calm, even voice.

"I'll tell you anyway, but there's really nothing we can do about it. The training manual that the Ministry uses says that you need to keep in mind three important things: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. Basically, you have to know your destination, that's obvious enough. Then, you focus your determination to be there – if you don't do that properly, you'll most likely get yourself splinched."

Here, Ron and Ginny winced.

"And then lastly, you need to deliberately let yourself fall into the spell."

Harry couldn't even comprehend what that meant.

"Now, as for why you can't do it," she continued, unrelenting. "Firstly, none of us has even been to Luna's place before. We don't even know what it looks like. The energy and effort it takes to Apparate somewhere increases with the Apparator's unfamiliarity, to the point where you physically can't Apparate somewhere if you don't even have a written or oral description of the place.

"Then, there's the fact that the Apparition course taught at Hogwarts is twelve weeks long, and hardly anyone gets it right during the first week –"

Harry, of course, was no longer listening to her. His heart was racing, and he kept looking around frantically, as though some kind of conduit would magically appear if he just looked hard enough. He tried to think – how many minutes had passed? Three? Four? Tonks and Mrs. Weasley had dashed to the Apparition point not ten seconds after the owl had dropped out of the sky. It would have taken them, at most, twenty seconds to sprint the distance to the clearing. Then, Apparition was instant, so whatever the crisis was, they would already be in the thick of it.

If Luna was safe, they should be on their way back, shouldn't they? Hermione was still recounting the impossibilities of Apparition. And here was Ron, eyes darting between him and Hermione. And Ginny, staring nervously into space. All of them helpless, unable to come to the aid of a loyal ally, in a time when allies were scarce to begin with.

Harry wanted to wave his arms frantically and shout "BUT THIS IS LUNA," but then he realized that they already knew that. Might they even feel the same frustration, helplessness, and anxiety? The same overwhelming sense of responsibility?

Tonks' words echoed in his head.

_You don't think that _some_ of us could possibly feel the same way?_

His head cleared a bit. His frustration remained.

Five minutes.

Tonks was as skilled a duelist as they come. He'd never actually seen Mrs. Weasley fight, but she WAS part of the Order – and wasn't there supposed to be someone else keeping watch over the Rook anyway?

"So don't you even try it, Mister Potter!" she finished, crossing her arms.

But what was he going to do? Nothing, apparently. He ground his foot into the dirt in anger. This feeling of helplessness, the mounting frustration – he hated it. If he'd only been prepared, if he'd known what was coming . . . and he did, didn't he? But what was he _supposed_ to do, teach himself Apparition in the confines of his uncle's home? His mind reached out into the blackness for answers and found none. He inhaled in preparation for a frustrated roar –

And then he felt something funny; his breath caught in his throat, and Ron looked at him quizzically. Harry himself was perplexed for a split second, but then in desperation he reached out and clutched onto the most ridiculous notion he could possibly imagine. He steeled himself. He might be grasping at nothing but thin air, but he had nothing to lose. If it didn't work, he'd be in the same boat as before, just looking a lot sillier.

He focused again. Anger. Frustration. A tingle. Then nothing. Ron was looking at him as though he were afraid for his health.

Harry shook it off and tried another time to focus his anger. He felt it, and throwing caution to the wind, he hooked himself onto that strange, flame-like essence. Something caught, like the teeth of a gear engaging, and he screamed at it with all his might,

_TAKE ME TO LUNA! _And her face filled his vision.

"Harry, what are you –"

There was a horrendous sound, like beams of wood struggling to hold together a caving structure. The atmosphere around them creaked and moaned, and for a split second, everything seemed to pause – and then Ron, Ginny, and Hermione were thrown backwards by a blast of hot air. Ginny went sprawling into the grass, Hermione into the path that led back to the Burrow, and Ron into one of the supporting columns of the garage.

Harry was gone.

* * *

Harry Potter exploded into existence again, and wondered at himself in shock. It had worked. Strangely, that hadn't felt like Apparition at all. Instead of being squeezed through a too-small pipe, he felt like he'd been blasted into a million little pieces and glued back together again.

Then he realized that he was falling.

The Rook was constructed on top of a small hill, overlooking a field of sugar beets that covered a relatively flat, gently sloped tract of land to its east. On its remaining sides were simply grassy fields that led up to a thin tree line, beyond which were more fields that belonged to other abodes. A lightly cobbled, but mostly dirt path zigzagged up to the building, extending from a paved road that appeared to cut lengthwise through the nearest tree line. Around the exterior of the ground floor, the house was surrounded by a variety of plants.

The signs of battle were obvious. The grass had been scorched in several wide arcs, and two of the bushes beside the dwelling were still in flames. The light of a deflected spell seared the air close by, and there was a smacking noise as the spell impacted the house, scattering a small amount of debris.

In the split second before panic set in, he realized that he had materialized not ten feet away from the house, beside a curtained window. Unfortunately, he was also fifty feet in the air. In the short time before he hit the ground, he barely managed to dig his wand out of his pocket and shout "_Spongify_!"

However, something in the spell went wrong and the air pressure pocket created by the cushioning charm only managed to deflect him slightly sideways, and he felt his left forearm snap as he hit the ground rolling. All at once, pain seared through his arm and he gasped for air. Coming to a halt, he staggered to his feet in a daze, looking around him. Tears welled in his eyes, and the combination of his impact on the ground and the pain in his arm left him sorely winded. He stood in place and struggled to inhale precious oxygen.

"Potter!" He heard someone shout. He looked over to his right through watery eyes. A man he did not recognize was bearing down on him. He looked strangely mad, and his wand was pointed straight at him. Suddenly, he snarled as ropes burst forth from the ground and wrapped tightly around his limbs. Remus Lupin, who had been fighting that particular Death Eater just moments prior, recognized Harry with a start.

"Harry, how–" he began, but he had to duck quickly to the side as the second Death Eater he had been holding off sent a curse his way. The ground where he had been moments before turned black and began oozing with thick bubbles. The ensnared Death Eater was now contained in what appeared to be a cocoon of thick, pulsing ropes.

A loud crackling noise got his attention next, and he turned to see Mrs. Weasley standing protectively over a man whom Harry could only guess was Luna's father. She and Tonks were holding off a pair of Death Eaters who were advancing up the path towards the house.

Suddenly another movement caught Harry's notice. He blinked furiously to clear his vision and spotted another black-cloaked figure skirting behind Mrs. Weasley and Tonks. He was about to shout a warning when instead of attacking the two witches, the fifth Death Eater flitted into the front door of the house, which stood ajar.

_Luna!_

Fighting the urge to be sick, Harry pelted towards the house. Every step he took jarred his whole body, sending searing hot pain through his arm.

"Harry?" he heard Mrs. Weasley's panicked voice call his name, but he was already ducking into the doorway.

The interior of the Rook was dark and somewhat musty. The curtains all around had been drawn shut, and little sunlight penetrated into the room. In the dim light, Harry could see that everything was built in a circular manner. Directly across from the front doorway was the kitchen, with its cabinets and drawers curved to match the walls.

Swallowing hard, Harry advanced wandfirst. He saw no trace of Luna, Death Eater, or indeed anything that signaled habitation. In fact, most of the surfaces, he noticed, were covered by a fine layer of dust. Blinking again, as much to clear his tears as well as a result of the thought that had just come to him, he looked over to the stairs. His thoughts were verified when he spotted the tracks on the stairs where the dust had been swept free, presumably by someone wearing robes.

He followed the path past the dark second floor landing. They hadn't veered off the stairwell, and the only door there was closed and appeared to be undisturbed.

This wasn't working. He was trying his damnedest to be cautious, but his breath came in a ragged hiss that made entirely too much noise as it passed between his clenched teeth. He couldn't avoid making noise with every creaking step, because the pain was beginning to overpower his discipline.

He reached the very top landing, and had a very, very bad feeling.

"_Crucio!_"

His body suddenly convulsed and jackknifed in pain. Harry tried to scream, but nothing came out. Thousands of jagged spikes punctured his flesh, and as he tried in vain to produce sound, all of his breath deserted him. He was suddenly thrown into an entirely new universe of agony as one of the convulsions caused his broken arm to bend under him in a way it was clearly not meant to.

His salvation came in the form of a voice that sounded soft, but rather confident.

"_Stupefy, reducto!_"

His assailant froze in place and subsequently flew into the opposite wall. The pain immediately dulled, and Harry was able to prop himself up on his good arm. In the wake of the Cruciatus Curse, he felt nothing but numbness in his left arm, for which he was almost thankful.

"Harry?"

Harry looked around dazedly. The combination of Cruciatus and his broken arm must really have done him a good one, because he was seeing things. Part of the stone wall of the Rook had broken off and was now advancing towards him. The stone golem again raised its wand at the now unconscious Death Eater.

"_Incarcerous._"

Thick ropes burst out of the floor, binding the helpless figure. The rock-person turned to face Harry. Then, it seemed to shimmer for a moment before the stone crumbled slowly away into dust, leaving a concerned-looking Luna Lovegood gazing down at him.

_Ah. Disillusioned. Not going loony . . . yet._

The pain was beginning to return to his arm and he tried to prop himself up into a good position to minimize the effect.

"Are you okay, Luna?"

"Kind of a silly thing to ask when you have a broken arm, isn't it?"

He hissed in pain as gravity took his arm in a direction it didn't want to go. Luna held her wand over his arm.

"Hold still – I don't know if this will work, but it never hurts to try, does it? _Episkey!_"

Warmth flowed through his broken arm, which righted itself as he watched. He looked at it in fascination, and felt as though he could sense the splintered ends of bone seeking each other out like tendrils. Not wholly unpleasant, but extremely unsettling. The warmth died out after a moment, however, and his arm felt strangely incomplete, though he could at least move it properly.

Luna merely looked at it.

"I was afraid of that. It's not meant for serious things, mostly scratches, really. It's probably fine to move it, but I think I'd avoid any Jingling Tearymoffs for now if I were you."

He had to ask.

"What?"

"Well, the traditional greeting in their culture is to box forearms, and I don't think yours can withstand much of an impact right now."

Harry just stared for a moment before deciding it wasn't worth the effort.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

She smiled at him, which he thought rather odd for someone whose house had just been attacked by not one, but several Death Eaters.

"No, but thank you Harry. I might not have been able to stun him properly if he hadn't been occupied."

Harry swallowed and tried to stand up. No real pain, just a definite sense of fragility in his left arm.

"Luna, could you Disillusion yourself and stay here? I have to go see what's happening outside."

"Oh," she said, and this time the familiar dreamy intonation began seeping back into her voice. "I don't think so."

"Really, Luna, they might need –"

"I'm sure they're fine." She smiled at him and took his good hand. "Let's go have a look."

He was about to protest when a voice came from downstairs.

"Harry, Luna?"

"Professor!" he called back, relieved. "Is everyone okay?"

"Just a couple of scratches. Are you hurt? How on earth did you get here? No wait, tell me later. What's wrong?" Lupin eyed them concernedly as he and Luna descended the last flight of steps.

"Just a broken arm, Luna patched it up a little."

"Is Dad okay?"

Lupin made a deep, relieved sigh before answering.

"Yes . . . yes, your father will be fine. A mediwitch just arrived to take him to St. Mungo's a moment ago."

Luna frowned.

"Will I be able to see him before school begins?"

"I don't see why not," said Lupin, mopping sweat off his forehead. "In fact, I'll take you to see him myself. He's not badly hurt – they just stunned him and, well, threw him against the door frame, which I guess knocked him out. I was able to distract them after that until Molly and Tonks showed up."

"Er – what did you do with the Death Eaters?" asked Harry.

"Aurors came to collect them," responded Lupin. "Why?"

"Well, there's another one upstairs that Luna knocked out."

The professor looked impressed.

"I'll tell them to take care of that one, too. Come, let's go outside. Molly is –"

"REMUS?"

He winced, and then beckoned for them to follow.

Outside, Tonks was discussing the fight with a ministry Auror. Four bound and gagged figures floated neatly in the air behind them. Harry had one second to take a look at the smoking lawn before a wand was in his face, followed by a great grizzly brown-haired face.

"Hold!" shouted Lupin, and the second Auror lowered his wand.

"Ah, Potter, it's you. All clear up there then, Remus?"

"Yes, Savage. One got through, but these two took care of him. Ehm, that is, what exactly did you do to him?"

"Well, I didn't, but Luna stunned him and then bound him up. He's up on the third floor," said Harry. Savage nodded and went inside wandfirst.

"Harry!" came the frantic voice of Mrs. Weasley. "Are you okay? What happened? How did you get here?"

She looked like she was about to crush him in her arms, and Harry hurriedly put space between them.

"Er, sorry Mrs. Weasley, it's just that . . . well, my arm's . . . well it was broken, but then Luna did something to fix it but it's not REALLY fixed . . ."

She inspected it curiously and looked over to Luna.

"What did you use, dear?"

"Oh, just _Episkey_. I'm afraid I haven't figured out bones yet."

Mrs. Weasley nodded.

"A good choice, I think. They really should teach you more practical spells at that school. Honestly! Why, I remember learning to fix Arthur up after some of the – well, here, sit down, Harry, we'll have this done right in a minute." He sat on the stone steps in front of the door, flanked by Luna on his right and Mrs. Weasley on his left. She began running her wand repeatedly back and forth over his arm, which began to alternate between a hot and cold sensation. He could almost feel the bone slowly stitching itself back together.

"So, Harry, how on _earth_ did you get here?" she asked again, looking up at him from his arm.

"Uh, well . . . I Apparated?" he said, confusedly. "It was the only way to get here, because none of us knew what direction to fly in."

"You couldn't have Apparated," she said, with an incredulous look on her face.

"He didn't Apparate," came Lupin's voice.

_Huh?_

"Huh?"

Lupin took one last look at the surroundings as he walked back over to them, leaving Tonks to finish her report to the Auror. Harry was profoundly confused, but Lupin ignored the expression on his face. "Almost done, Molly? We should discuss this back at your place. Luna, do you and your father keep brooms?"

"Why yes, Dad keeps them around the back. They're in the tomatoes."

Lupin looked confused.

"Come, you'd better show me."

Harry, his arm now fully healed, stood up with Luna and Mrs. Weasley, and walked around the house. True to her word, there was a tomato vine growing on a freestanding lattice, and tangled in its mass of leaves were two brooms.

"Right, well, Molly, you head on back. I'll take the kids on brooms. Tonks!"

"Yeah?" came her response from around the house.

"Have you got the rest of this handled? We're going back," called Lupin as they circled around to the front of the house again.

Tonks, now in view, gave him a wave.

"You okay, Harry? Luna?"

They nodded.

_Pretty sure I Apparated._

Mrs. Weasley gave Harry a squeeze and stepped off, pulling out her wand. She Disapparated with a sharp _crack!_ Lupin handed Harry a broom, and mounted his own, motioning for them to follow.

Harry hesitated for a moment, but Luna took the broom from his hand and sat him down behind her. She kicked off the ground after Lupin, and they began flying east, from what Harry could tell by the angle of the sun.

_Okay, no, I definitely Apparated._

"You're going to fall, Harry."

"Huh? Oh," with an instinctive jolt, he managed to stop himself from tipping, and gingerly put his hands on Luna's waist.

"Is your arm better?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Mm," he said. She seemed to take this as a 'yes' or a 'thanks' or something of the sort, because she faced back front and sped after the Professor.

_Did I?_

Harry's thoughts occupied him for the rest of the short flight, but he did register that the Rook was, in fact, relatively close to the Burrow – about a mile as the phoenix flies, and obscured by hills and treelines.

They passed the perimeter of the Unplottable land, and the world seemed to spin on some arbitrary axis, and when they stopped spinning, they were somehow approaching the Burrow from the north instead.

"Ooh, that was exciting!" cried Luna, "Can we do it again?"

He smiled in spite of his preoccupation. "Later. Lupin's waving us down to land."

As they began a spiral downwards into the front lawn, Harry was overcome by a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread. It felt like someone was watching his every move; a predator stalking its prey. He swallowed and looked tentatively downward. A very, very angry pair of brown eyes stared back up at him.

_Oh, hell._

* * *

Well, that's it for now! It didn't originally end there, but this chapter got cut short and the end got tacked onto the next chapter. Be sure to check out the PDF form of the story! (Link available in author profile.)

**About this story: **_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ and its sequel take place after _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. They are meant to be read in place of _Half-Blood Prince_ and _Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . lulz._

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts, and that's not even definite. 333

Thanks for reading! BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW KILL KILL KILL.


	7. Ch7: The Melancholy of Draco Malfoy

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _

**Author's Note:** Deathly Hallows release kicked muses and motivation into high gear. Hope everyone enjoyed the movie!

Also PDF and (broken) EPUB formats for this story are now online, for anyone interested. Check the author profile for the link. We were thinking about having chapter cover art but . . . drawing is harddddd. :(

Chapter is kind of like the corresponding one in HBP, but not really.

Also, a later chapter is in danger of increasing the rating of this story from T to M, because of gore. Considering writing a T-friendly version and a separate M version, but we shall see.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Seven

"The Melancholy of Draco Malfoy"

21 November 2010

FanFictionDotNet Edit

"HARRY. POTTER."

His doom was approaching, in the form of balled fists and flying brown hair. Harry quickly dismounted the broom and put up his hands defensively.

"Now, Hermione," he began, but she was closing the distance rapidly. The murderous light in her eyes would probably have set his hair on fire if she'd had her way. Something along those lines appeared to be on her mind, because she was gripping her wand tightly in her hand.

And then she fell upon him.

"YOU. STUPID. PRAT." she shouted, each syllable punctuated by one of her fists colliding with his chest. He tried blocking a punch, but she just shoved his arm away and pushed him further along with both hands.

"Hermione, wait – hey! No, – _oof_!"

"Hermione –" began Ron in an attempt to spare Harry's life, but it was little use. Hermione was already backing him up the path towards the house.

"You. Could. Have. DIED. You could have been _expelled._ What would we do then? What are we _supposed_ to do without you? Did Dumbledore or the prophecy ever tell you? Do you ever stop to _think_ what might happen? No, because you're _the invincible Harry Potter._"

Harry continued to back up and nearly tripped over a shrub. He found himself pressed against the outside of the Burrow's kitchen, caught between a wall and her fiery wrath. Across the lawn, their audience simply stared at them hesitantly. Most of them seemed like they wanted to come to his rescue, but the aura of rage radiating from Hermione was simply too great to overcome. Ron stood with his hand half outstretched in a gesture of uncertainty and seemed frozen in place.

"You'd better give me ONE good reason NOT TO HEX YOU RIGHT NOW, HARRY POTTER!"

"Er, well, then I'd _really_ be dead?" reasoned Harry in a very small voice.

She raised the wand high above her head –

_Goodbye world, goodbye Ron, goodbye Dumbledore, goodbye magic –_

– and she collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest.

Harry blinked. Hermione had her arms wrapped tightly around him, hands on his back, digging into him with her fingertips.

"You idiot," came her angry, muffled voice. "You _blow yourself up_ and then you come walking – flying back here like_ nothing happened –_"

"I – what?" he asked, flabbergasted.

The others, sensing the danger had passed, advanced tentatively up the path towards them.

"You exploded," said Hermione, catching her breath, "into _little tiny bits_, and I – we –" She gave a little shake and thumped his chest again with a fist.

Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged.

"You did, mate," he said, lifting an arm briefly in Hermione's direction. "You just looked really, really mad and then, BANG! You exploded, and all that was left was this red mist for like half a second." Now that Harry's imminent demise had been postponed, Ron seemed to find something highly amusing and was trying desperately to conceal a grin.

"I actually thought that you'd just gotten so mad that your noggin couldn't take it and you just _blew_ _up_ –"

"It's _not funny_, Ron," came Hermione's voice from Harry's shirt again.

But Harry was grinning along with Ron, seeing the humor in the situation.

"It's good to see you care," he joked, patting Hermione on the head. She responded with a punch to his kidney.

"OW, okay, I get it!" he said quickly, trying to back away even more.

Mrs. Weasley steered them all inside and began setting the kitchen straight with her wand. The owls had apparently vacated the premises in their absence, leaving behind a minefield of smashed plates and upturned pots and pans.

"So, Harry," said Lupin, seating himself across from Harry at the table, a mug of pumpkin juice in his hand. "Tell me what happened."

Harry related the events leading up to his appearance at the Rook. Hermione spent the duration of his story listening to him from across the table while still plainly annoyed with him for defying her earlier counsel. Ron was managing to chew some breakfast leftovers while gazing awestruck at Harry. Lupin simply sipped at his juice.

"I _told_ you, you didn't Apparate," said Lupin, finally.

"But – I thought I Apparated?" said Harry, still confused. He looked to Lupin for an explanation, but Ginny cut in.

"He definitely Apparated, didn't he?"

"He can't have Apparated," came Mrs. Weasley's stern voice.

"That's what I _told_ him," said Hermione, still annoyed.

"Well, you definitely did _something_."

"Thanks, Ron."

"Doesn't have to be Apparition," said Luna. Lupin looked at her approvingly.

"You Apparated with Dumbledore, right? Didn't you say it felt different this time?" asked Lupin, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

"Well yes," said Harry. "It felt like I was being blasted into little pieces."

"It _looked_ like you were blasted into little pieces," said Hermione through gritted teeth.

"Which is not how Apparition works," said Lupin. "And there are several other reasons why I feel like you didn't Apparate."

"Such as?" asked Hermione, now interested.

"Well, for one thing, Tonks blanketed the whole area with an anti-Apparition ward as we were leaving," said Mrs. Weasley, now setting an extra helping of breakfast leftovers in front of Luna. "She timed it to go off a few seconds after we Disapparated. I know for a fact that it was still up, because I tried Apparating here several times, and got nothing until I asked Tonks to lift it."

"There's also this," continued Lupin, "How long have we been back, now?"

Hermione looked at him quizzically before replying.

"Maybe ten minutes?"

Lupin lifted his hands in sort of a shrug.

"And look. No owls? No howlers from the Ministry expelling Harry from school?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. But wait, no, that couldn't be right, could it? After all, Luna had used a Stunning spell _and_ a Reductor curse _and_ an Incarcerating jinx _and_ Cure Minor Wounds, and _she_ hadn't gotten a letter either.

"But Professor –" began Harry.

"Remus, please, Harry."

"Er, right, Remus – Luna used magic, too. She hasn't gotten an owl either."

"_Stupefy_, _confringo_, _incarcerous_, right?" asked Lupin, looking over at Luna, who shook her head.

"_Reducto_, not _confringo_," she corrected pleasantly, "and _episkey_."

"All the same," said Lupin, "she won't be getting a warning."

"What?" asked Harry, aghast. After all, he'd gotten such letters for 'misusing' much less destructive magic in the past.

"Those spells," continued Lupin after another sip of his pumpkin juice, "are not covered by the Trace. Apparition, however, is."

"What's the Trace?" asked Ginny, setting down the plate she had been washing, and drying her hands on her jeans.

"It's how the Ministry keeps track of underage magic," said Lupin. "Some of the most common spells can be detected by the Trace charm, so the Ministry uses it to keep track of the spells that underage witches and wizards are most likely to use. Apparition is notorious for underage use of magic, because sixth years for some reason just can't resist saving their feet a bit of trouble."

Hermione looked rather disturbed.

"Isn't that . . . a gross invasion of privacy?"

"Yes, it is," Lupin agreed. "In fact, the Master Arithmancer who designed the Trace only agreed to turn the charm over to the Ministry under the condition that it would lift from the individual once he or she came of age."

"So," said Hermione, "normal students aren't expected to heal scratches, stun, blast, Reductor, or rope anyone up?"

"Nope," said Lupin.

"Cushioning charm?" asked Harry. Lupin shook his head.

"_That's_ why I didn't get in trouble for warding my parents' house with Dumbledore," Hermione concluded, her eyes widening in realization.

"But they do get in trouble for levitating puddings," said Harry, referring to Dobby's use of magic in his house prior to second year.

"Mhm."

"Blowing people up like balloons," continued Harry, now counting his own warnings on his fingers.

"Most likely happened to a Muggle as a prank once upon a time, yes," confirmed Lupin. "Before your Aunt, that is. Most of the spells under the Trace were used for pranking."

"And, hang on – Patronuses?" asked Harry, incredulously. "When would Patronuses ever have been an underage problem? I thought that was supposed to be advanced magic – everyone at the Ministry was surprised when I did it."

"That was actually James' fault," said Lupin with a wry smile.

"What?" asked Harry, his mouth hanging open.

"From what I understand, he was showing off to Lily over the summer." The retired professor was now grinning. Mrs. Weasley looked sharply over at him with a disapproving glare. "He wouldn't have been caught by the Trace or the Ministry, except that Severus had been spying on them. After it'd been reported, some mid-level Journeyman Arithmancer with too much spare time decided it'd be a good Mastery project to incorporate it into the Trace."

"So," Harry concluded, "you think I didn't Apparate because the Trace didn't go off."

"Well yes, that's one of the reasons," said Lupin. "Among all the others."

"So what happened, then?" prompted Ron.

"No idea," said Lupin brightly, throwing his hands up into the air. They all stared at him in disbelief, except Luna, who was now enticing Crookshanks with a piece of bacon.

"Well," he continued, "I never said I knew exactly what happened." He looked thoughtfully around the room. "I suppose I'll have to tell Dumbledore anyway, when I give him my report."

* * *

A little while later, Harry found himself walking down a dirt road leading away from the Weasley property. They were to make their trip to Diagon Alley by Ministry car, and transportation was presumably waiting for them, the driver most likely confused out of his mind, somewhere outside of the Burrow's protective charms. Lupin led them, followed by Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley brought up the rear.

Sure enough, they arrived at the side of a road that seemed to not have been repaved in decades, and a pair of shiny black Ministry cars came skidding along. The drivers wore irate expressions on their faces, for they had been driving in circles for a very long time, unable to locate the Burrow.

The trip to London was uneventful and shorter than Harry expected. He spent most of the ride being pressed up against different things in the car as the driver zigzagged through oncoming traffic, never once removing his foot from the gas.

After a harrowing encounter with a double decker bus, the cars stopped abruptly bumper-to-bumper in front of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny entered the pub while Mrs. Weasley made arrangements to meet the drivers a few hours later. Lupin remained in the second car with Luna, bound for St. Mungo's. Their driver threw the car into reverse and ran right over the top of the Audi parked directly behind them, before speeding right along through the nearest red light.

The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty, dimly lit, and dusty. Tom the landlord looked up at them as they entered and nudged the sole, gigantic snoring figure at the bar. The large man jerked into wakefulness and turned around to face the group.

"Hagrid!"

The gigantic beaming groundskeeper swept the four of them into his arms, lifting them all off the ground.

"I just got back from takin' Witherwings back ter Hogwarts! E's so happy, 'e is, back wi' all 'is friends –"

"That's great, Hagrid," said Harry, smiling up at him. He figured 'Witherwings' could only be Buckbeak the hippogriff.

"I'm ter escort all o' yeh through the Alley," continued Hagrid. "Oh, an' before I forget –" He drew a small pouch of jingling coins and tossed it to Harry. "Bill Weasley stopped by on 'is lunch break, said 'e got yer money outta yer vault for yeh. It's a madhouse up at the Bank, it is."

"Thanks," said Harry, stuffing the pouch into his trouser pocket.

At that moment, Mrs. Weasley stepped into the pub, followed by Mr. Weasley, whom Harry could only assume had just Apparated in nearby.

"Got the rest of the day off," he said, brightly. "Ah, good to see you, Hagrid. I assume that you're the security that Dumbledore promised?"

"Tha's righ' Arthur," said the half giant, shaking his hand.

"Well, let's get going then," said Mrs. Weasley, ushering them all towards the back door of the pub. "Ginny will come with me to buy everyone's books – Arthur, could you see if you can get hold of Bill? We need to buy Luna's books as well –"

"Ah, I heard about that from Tonks," said Mr. Weasley, his brow furrowed.

"What's that?" asked Hagrid curiously.

"Tell you later," said Harry, as they exited into the alleyway behind the pub.

"Now, you three," said Mrs. Weasley, turning to them, "Go get whatever you need from Madam Malkin's and meet us outside Flourish and Blott's. We'll all go together to see Fred and George."

Diagon Alley had gone through a complete transformation since Harry had seen it last. Its cheery hustle and bustle was replaced by a quiet shuffling as witches and wizards moved hurriedly along with their heads down and their eyes fixed in front of them. The colorful advertisements were replaced by Ministry warnings, decrees, and wanted posters. A good number of shops that Harry had once seen lively with customers now sat dark and deserted.

As they walked, Harry, Ron, and Hermione related the morning's events to Hagrid, who was wide-eyed with amazement.

"So, you figured out Apparatin' on yer own, did yer?"

"Well, I thought I did," began Harry.

"Oh, not _this_ again," cut in Hermione preemptively. "Professor Lupin figures that Harry did something completely different from how Apparition normally works, but no one _really_ knows what happened, so we're waiting to hear what Dumbledore says about it."

"Oh, well," said Hagrid, still impressed, "I'm jus' glad to hear yer all alive an' well."

At Madam Malkin's, Hagrid made to stand guard outside, while Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the small shop.

The small front parlor was empty, so the three of them made their way back towards the fitting rooms. They came upon the room used for measurements, and as Harry leaned his head around the door, Madam Malkin saw him and beckoned them in.

"Have a seat, dear, I'm almost done with your schoolmate here."

Harry walked in and did a double take at the boy whose shoulders were currently wrapped in measuring tape. It was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy's eyes met his own, and for a second that seemed like an eternity, their gazes were simply locked. Then, without so much as a word of insult, mockery, or even recognition, Draco's eyes snapped back to face forward, as if he'd never seen the Gryffindor Trio in his life.

Harry exchanged puzzled looks with Ron and Hermione. Hermione shrugged, completely thrown by the lack of insults or any sign of aggression. Ron looked like he wanted to say something cross, but Harry backed him down with a shake of his head. The three of them sat awkwardly on a row of seats that lined the wall, and waited for Madam Malkin to finish.

They exited Madam Malkin's a short while later, their purchases stuffed into Hermione's bag.

"What was that all about?" asked Ron, once they were out of Madam Malkin's company.

"Wha' was what?" asked Hagrid, rejoining them.

"We ran into Malfoy," said Harry, "Only, he didn't say anything."

"Ah, tha's righ'," said Hagrid, "'E came out not too long ago. Saw me and jus' turned around and walked off. Whas' a matter?"

"Well, he would normally have said _something_," said Harry, "but he didn't even call Hermione any names."

"Maybe he's plotting something," said Ron. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Or maybe he's just stopped being as childish as you, Ron."

"Hey!" said Ron, offended. "No, really, I bet he's up to something."

"Yeah," said Harry. "I'll bet he is."

"Oh honestly you two, Malfoy decides to _not_ pick a fight for once, so you believe he's got something up his sleeve?"

"Well yeah," said Harry, as if it should be obvious. "That's the only explanation."

Hermione was about to respond, but Hagrid steered them towards their next destination.

"'E's probably just though' better of it. Now let's not go lookin' for trouble."

They met the remaining Weasleys outside of Eeylops Owl Emporium, and together they made their way towards number Ninety-Three, Diagon Alley.

Harry's jaw dropped when the front façade of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes came into view. In stark contrast with the dreary atmosphere that pervaded the rest of Diagon Alley, the twins' store was brightly lit with large windows and what looked like Christmas lights strung on along every corner.

"_Nice,_" said Ron in admiration. He shot a look at Harry, who grinned back, and the two of them raced into the shop without so much a parting word to the rest of the group.

The little store was packed. Harry wondered briefly if the rest of the Alley was so deserted because everyone chose to shop here instead. Against one wall, Skiving Snackboxes were piled to great heights. They came in all sizes from a box that Harry could fit in the palm of his hand ("_A handful of mischief in your pocket!_"), to a large, brightly decorated crate of sweets ("_Warning: for consumption during O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s only_").

There were several islands surrounded by bins of sweets, which seemed to be stations for the customers to make their own Skiving Snackboxes. Harry recognized several bins of Ton-Tongue Toffees, which the twins had tested on Dudley, and Puking Pastilles. The most popular seemed to be Nosebleed Nougat, with most of its bins empty. Harry spotted a box of the Nougat emptying itself into one of the vacant bins.

Interspersed between the islands were barrels full of trick wands, most of which turned into rubber chickens when waved, but several which apparently worked the other way and turned the user into a rubber chicken instead.

Not everything was a joke product, it seemed – Harry and Ron passed a stack of quills that automatically corrected misspelled words. Unsurprisingly, they were located beside an even larger stack of quills that automatically misspelled correct words.

Harry passed a group of giggling first-years who were clustered around a stack of what appeared to be bottled love potions, and found himself beside Hermione. She was reading the back of a box of 'Patented Daydream Charms'. She looked up at him in wonder.

"This is impressive," she said, wide-eyed. "You pop the charm, and it sends you into a thirty minute daydream. Where did they even learn this kind of magic?"

"Care to try it out?" came a voice from over Harry's shoulder. He turned to see Fred, dressed in a hideous solid purple Muggle suit with a pink necktie. George stood beside him, wearing a matching pink suit with purple necktie.

"Is it safe?" she asked, looking at them apprehensively and still clutching the small box.

"It's perfectly safe, you know – we've obviously tried it ourselves," said George, picking up one of the boxes and examining it proudly.

"All of our products are thoroughly tested and rated for safety!" quipped Fred, "And amusement, of course."

"Go ahead and grab what you want Hermione, it's on the house today!"

Hermione bit her lip and turned back to the shelves.

"And you too Harry, oh great benefactor," said Fred, dropping into a mock bow.

George looked over and spotted Mrs. Weasley staring with an open jaw and a horrified expression at a stack of Easter rabbits that gushed chocolate blood when you bit into them.

"Er, how about a tour, Harry? We've got some exciting developments you might be interested in."

Harry consented to follow them towards the back of the shop, and was nearly bowled over by a witch carrying a stack of boxes labeled Nosebleed Nougat. She, too, was dressed in a brightly colored Muggle woman's suit – light blue with a lime green necktie.

Fred pushed open a curtain at the end of the room and ushered Harry inside. He found himself faced with several ceiling-high stacks of pointy wizard hats.

"Shield hats!" exclaimed George enthusiastically. "We were just fooling around in our free time, but the Ministry put in a massive order for them. Several _hundred_ Galleons' worth. Who knew that so many adult wizards had no idea how to do a simple Shield Charm? We also have Disillusionment cloaks, but they're still experimental and only last for a minute when you pop 'em – but we figured that's long enough to get to safety. There's also these Muggle smoke bombs –"

"Dad's gonna love those, if he hasn't already lost himself in the Muggle trick sets that we've got outside."

"There's also – aha!" George pulled out a large wooden barrel from behind a shelf. "We've finished the secure floo powder!"

Harry looked at it warily, remembering what it had done to the Burrow's fireplace. Still, he was impressed.

"Does everything actually work?" he asked.

"Of course it does!" said Fred, "And it's a whole lot better than letting people buy those hokey charms and whatnot that those street peddlers are trying to pass off as protective magic, anyway. Do help us spread the word, won't you?"

A blonde head poked into the curtained room. Harry saw it was the witch from before, with the vivid blue suit.

"Misters Weasley," she called," There's a group of students here to pick up a Skiving Snack-crate."

"Gotcha, Verity," said George, and he swept off after her.

Fred and Harry made their way back through the sea of customers. They found Luna and Ginny cooing over a cage which housed what looked like balls of fur with legs.

"What are those?" asked Harry, as Fred opened the cage for Luna to reach in and collect two of the fuzzy creatures.

"Pygmy puffs," said Fred. "One of our employees used to breed puffskeins, and she happened to mix a breed of them that never grow larger than a fist. Turns out they make pretty clean pets, really popular with the ladies."

"Oh Mum, can I keep it?" asked Ginny. Mrs. Weasley had just turned up, brushing off feathers from her shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously, moving to her side.

"Harry!" came Ron's voice. He was tugging on Harry's sleeve.

"What is it?"

"Look!" Ron pointed out the window. Draco Malfoy was making his own way up the nearly empty Alley alone.

"Right, come on then," said Harry, and together he and Ron found Hermione and Harry led them out of the store.

They lurked around a corner while Hermione fished in her bag for Harry's invisibility cloak.

"Honestly, you two, this is ridiculous," she said, throwing the garment over their shoulders.

It was a tight fit under the cloak – the three of them had grown, and it could now barely cover all of them if they scrunched and huddled together and walked slowly.

"There!" said Harry, gesturing forward.

Draco was sitting by himself on one of the benches in the middle of the street. He made no move as they approached him under the cloak. In fact, he didn't do anything for a whole minute after they had reached him. And after that? Nothing. He simply sat and stared into space. For a moment, Harry thought he looked almost despondent.

Harry was beginning to get a cramp in his back from standing hunched over for so long when a voice came from behind them, causing him to nearly jump out of the cloak. He heard Hermione muffle a startled gasp from behind him.

"Let's go, Draco."

"Yes, mother," complied the blond-haired Slytherin, getting to his feet.

The trio shuffled to the side to avoid Draco as he walked towards the woman they now recognized as Narcissa Malfoy. The two of them began walking back towards the Leaky Cauldron. Harry, Ron, and Hermione waited until they were out of sight to pull off the cloak.

"I _told_ you," said Hermione. "Nothing was happening."

"He _could_ have been plotting," said Ron defensively.

"Because he looked _oh_ so devious right there," countered Hermione.

She and Ron argued all the way back to the shop, but Harry was lost in thought. Something about Draco's passivity bothered him more than anything he could have done, had he been as confrontational as usual. However, he saw no way of finding out what it was that had sparked this change in behavior.

Back at the twins' store, they found an anxious Mrs. Weasley trying to round up their group to return home.

* * *

The remainder of the day passed without incident, though Harry couldn't shake off the odd feeling about Draco, despite whatever Hermione said.

Ginny and Hermione had prepared a cake for him under the supervision of Mrs. Weasley, and with the twins, Bill and Fleur, and Tonks over for dinner, the harrowing events of that morning were finally conquered with a joyous toast to Harry's health.

Harry's brooding thoughts were finally dispelled when he unwrapped Luna's birthday present. She'd gotten him a bobblehead figure he instantly recognized as Oliver Wood, in his Puddlemere United Quidditch uniform.

"Thanks, Luna," he said, grinning brightly.

"You're welcome, Harry. You were looking quite troubled earlier, and I thought it might cheer you up." She smiled, and gave his shoulder a squeeze with the hand that was not holding her sleeping pygmy puff.

The end of the night was a welcome relief. It had been a long, eventful day, and Harry could barely suppress his yawns – though he was doing better than Ron, who had simply fallen asleep with his head on the dining table.

He tried to carry his dirty dishes into the kitchen to wash them himself, but he was shooed away to bed by Mrs. Weasley.

Hermione caught up to him as he was stretching his arms at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hey," she called, and he stopped mid-stretch and looked over to her. She was holding something out to him, and he took it.

"It's your present – I was going to wrap it this morning, but, well, you know."

He unfolded it. It turned out to be a large piece of linen cloth with a golden felt Snitch sewn onto one side.

"It's a pillowcase," she clarified apprehensively, "I thought my sewing had gotten better after all of those hats and socks for the house elves, so –"

But Harry was smiling broadly.

"It's brilliant, Hermione! Thanks. Er, you're not still mad, are you?"

She shook her head at first, but then glared at him again.

"You scared the _shit_ out of me this morning."

"Yeah, er, sorry about that," he said nervously. "It's just, I had to try something, you know? I didn't even mean for it to work – I didn't even _know_ it would work –"

Still glaring.

"I didn't mean to make you worry, really! I promise I'll never explode into tiny little bits in front of your eyes again. How's that?"

She sniffed, but Harry saw her lips furiously trying to hide a grin.

"Apology accepted, Mister Potter," she said, finally, and pulled him into a brief hug, before disappearing into Ginny's room.

* * *

Next stop, Hogwarts! Fucking finally!

**About this story: **_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ and its sequel take place after _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. They are meant to be read in place of _Half-Blood Prince_ and _Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . lulz._

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts, and that's not even definite. :D

Thanks for reading! Embrace the dark side, for it will make you strong.


	8. Ch8: The Heart of Darkness

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _

**Author's Note:** Deathly Hallows release kicked muses and motivation into high gear. Also a rare occasion took place, and the primary and secondary authors actually had free time that coincided with each other. That's why there's a double post.

Also PDF and (broken) EPUB formats for this story are now online, for anyone interested. Check the author profile for the link. We were thinking about having chapter cover art but . . . drawing is harddddd. :(

"Degradation" is the collective noun for a group of Dementors, if you didn't catch that from an earlier chapter.

Also, a later chapter is in danger of increasing the rating of this story from T to M, because of gore. Considering writing a T-friendly version and a separate M version, but we shall see.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Eight

"The Heart of Darkness"

22 November 2010

FanFictionDotNet Edit

_Serving YOU in your time of need – SUPPORT YOUR MINISTRY_

– Text from a Ministry of Magic flyer, c. 1996.

The morning of 1 September was cold and dreary. There was no break in the blanket of clouds as the driver of the shiny black Ministry vehicle careened down the highway towards London. Harry sat scrunched between Ron and two large school trunks, the magical enchantments of the car's backseat struggling to hold them all in. Bill and Mr. Weasley shared the front passenger seat, which also stretched itself out to accommodate them.

In his lap, Harry held Hedwig's cage. She had spent the first ten minutes of the car ride hooting shrilly in protest as a sharp turn had sent the top trunk beside Harry crashing down on the top of the cage. She had gradually grown resigned to sitting huddled quietly in her cage, occasionally shooting Harry a dirty glance.

_Sorry, girl_. Harry gave her what he thought to be a sympathetic look, and got a cold shoulder in return. He sighed and once again gripped the cage tightly as the driver swerved onto the median to avoid an oncoming semi.

_At least you don't have to share a car with all the others_.

Their exodus from the Burrow had thankfully gone without so much as a hiccup. Tonks, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley piled into one car along with the two pygmy puffs, Crookshanks, Pigwidgeon, and Luna's trunk.

Fleur was initially distraught over the fact that she had a shift to cover at Gringotts that day – a fact that pleased Ginny and Mrs. Weasley to no end. She was placated by Tonks, who promised to take her out for a night on the town later on, but not before giving Harry and Ron each a parting kiss on each cheek.

It was probably the shock that kept Ron staring into space for the majority of the trip.

When they arrived at King's Cross, Harry opened the car door and stepped into the same gloomy atmosphere that he had witnessed one month ago in Diagon Alley. What struck him as significant was the fact that they were still on the Muggle side of the station, and yet, as he stood between the two lanes of pedestrian traffic, everyone who passed him by carried the same demeanor, as though if they could simply hunch over far enough, they would manage to isolate themselves completely.

A Muggle woman simply drew her collar closer about her face as she passed an equally glum witch carrying an owl cage in one arm and a cauldron in the other.

Without a word, Bill passed them a trolley and Harry and Ron hauled their trunks out of the car.

Mr. Weasley kept a firm hand on Harry's shoulder as they stepped through the barrier.

Emerging on the other side, Harry was now unsurprised to find it looking almost exactly the same as the Muggle side, only with Ministry bulletins instead of advertisements plastered on the walls. He trod a loose poster underfoot, and stopped to pick it up out of curiosity.

It was a man, divided in two, grimacing back up at him. His right side gave the appearance of a businessman in everyday robes; the left side of his face and body were covered in a Death Eater's mask and cloak. At the bottom of the poster in small block letters was the text: _YOU NEVER KNOW_.

The scarlet train sat imposingly at its long berth like an iron leviathan. At the conductor's compartment, Harry could see a wizard in a trim scarlet boilersuit conversing with a tall, pale-skinned wizard wearing jet black robes with a blue trim. He recognized those robes – they were the same as the robes Tonks was wearing at that moment, over her duelist's gear.

The Auror – for Harry was sure that it must be an Auror's uniform he was wearing – held a broomstick loosely in his right hand as he spoke with the conductor. On either side of the pair, there were a witch and a wizard in everyday drab robes, also carrying brooms.

Tonks, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny brought up the rear through the barrier, and the group started across the platform towards the waiting train. It didn't take Harry very long to notice that their progress went unhindered, as people moved to the side upon recognizing who they were. Harry groaned inwardly.

_Not this again . . ._

Before long, he was being embraced by Mrs. Weasley.

"Now, you have a good term – and at least _try_ to stay out of trouble, won't you?"

"You're welcome back over Christmas, of course," said Mr. Weasley, shaking his hand. Harry nodded, and forced a smile onto his face.

"Hey, Harry, just a moment –" Bill Weasley had taken his arm and drawn him to the side. "Just wanted you to know, I'm supposed to be working with Dumbledore later on, so I'll probably be dropping by the Castle once in a while."

This piqued Harry's interest.

"What's he got you working on?" he asked, but Bill shook his head and glanced around quickly as though to indicate '_not here'_.

"I just wanted to let you know, if you need anything, just send me an owl and I'll see what I can do."

Harry nodded his thanks for the gesture, and they returned to the departing goodbyes.

Tonks embraced Harry tightly with a similar promise that she'd be seeing him later that term, but remained equally mum regarding the circumstances. Harry noticed her glancing around surreptitiously and his predictions came true when she, too, drew him aside for a moment.

"Remember when we talked on the roof?" she asked in a low whisper.

"Yeah," said Harry, nodding.

"Sorry we never got to follow up, hey?" she said, wincing slightly. "It's just been . . . a busy month."

"Oh," said Harry, remembering that she'd wanted to continue their conversation from before. He certainly believed her – her lack of sleep was quite apparent from the bags under her eyes, and Harry had seen less and less of her around the Burrow every day until she just stopped coming altogether. He patted her on the shoulder, because it seemed like she needed it. "It's no problem, and there'll be other times."

She gave him a wry smile, and for a second he thought that she didn't believe that in the slightest.

"You'll remember what we talked about?" she asked earnestly.

Harry scanned his memory briefly. They'd talked about guilt, blame, killing, war, and he'd asked her about –

"Dumbledore's lessons?"

The train's whistle blew.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't listen to what he has to say, you know," she said quickly, "Just take it with a grain of salt."

Mrs. Weasley was waving frantically for him to get on the train.

"Oh, who am I fooling?" she said, covering her face with her palm, "at least promise you'll be careful."

"I will, Tonks, thanks!" said Harry, pulling away. They exchanged a wave, and he sprinted up to the door and grabbed onto the railing as the Hogwarts Express began to move. He almost fell off backwards, but Ron was there, apparently just having hauled both their trunks aboard, and he grabbed Harry by the collar and heaved him onto the train.

He remained in the passageway to watch the platform disappear out of sight. As the platform grew smaller, three figures on broomsticks grew larger. The Auror in uniform was apparently the train's escort, along with his two companions.

Then, remembering something, he turned back around.

"Ron, aren't you supposed to be with the other prefects?"

Ron's face paled slightly.

"Oh bugger, yeah," said Ron. "Well, you don't suppose being a _little_ late would hurt that much?"

"Hermione," Harry reminded him.

"Oh, right."

They squeezed their trunks through a compartment door that Luna was holding open for them, and Ron bolted off down the narrow corridor.

Harry began lifting his trunk into the overhead racks when a voice piped up.

"Need help, Harry?"

He looked up to find Neville rising out of his seat.

"Yes, please, Neville," he replied, and together the two of them threw Ron's and Harry's trunks onto the bars. Harry opened the window and let Hedwig and Pigwidgeon out to stretch their wings, closing it tightly again once they had departed.

Luna slid the door shut and took up a seat beside the window. She sat with her legs folded on the seat, and opened the same issue of _The Quibbler_ that she'd been reading for the past week.

"Where'd Ginny go?" asked Harry, finally noticing that it was just Neville, Luna, and himself in the compartment.

"She went to meet with Dean Thomas," said Luna, looking up at him with her protuberant eyes, "They're going out, you know."

"Er - Oh, Right. How was your summer, Neville?" asked Harry, seating himself across from Luna. Neville plonked down beside Luna, jarring Trevor the toad out of his breast pocket. Trevor attempted to hop away, but Neville managed to barely catch him by the leg midair.

"It was alright," he said, sitting back. "My family kind of freaked out when the _Prophet_ printed that story about us. A bunch of relatives came over, and we just kinda holed up. It was like a family reunion. Some of the Clearwaters even came."

That name rang a bell, and Harry paused to think for a moment.

"You're related to Penelope Clearwater?" he asked, the switch clicking in his head.

"No, but she was there. Do you know her?"

"She was Ron's brother's girlfriend at one point, I think," replied Harry.

"We're not related, really," Neville said, shaking his head. "At least, not recently, but my Gran says that our families go way back. I think we used to be nobles, once, or something."

Harry thought about this for a minute, but _The Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom_ just didn't have quite the same ring to it.

"Say, Harry," began Neville after a moment. "Are we doing the D.A. again this year?"

Harry was a bit taken aback.

"Isn't everyone doing the accelerated Defense course this year?"

"Only upperclassmen," Luna reminded him sadly.

"Yeah, and I learned loads more with you than with any of our professors," said Neville, sounding a bit disheartened.

Harry squirmed a bit. He'd been planning to focus more on his own studies this year – there was the accelerated Defense course, and whatever Dumbledore had in store for him, and of course there was always Quidditch to consider now that Umbridge was gone.

"We'll see," he said tentatively.

They rode in silence for a while, and outside, though it could be scarcely noon, the sky darkened even further. Eventually, a unexpected blur passed by their compartment window and dropped back towards the rear of the train. Harry leaned onto the sill to catch a glimpse, and saw the Auror loosely flanked by his two companions, hovering alongside the second to last car.

"There's a lot of Aurors about nowadays," mused Harry, absentmindedly.

"Not really," said Neville, which brought Harry back to attention.

"How d'you mean?" he asked curiously. He'd certainly seen more Aurors in the past two months than he'd ever seen in his life.

"Well, I overheard one of Gran's friends when he came to visit," said Neville, nervousness for some reason seeping into his voice. "Gran used to work with the Old Aurors, you see, from before they were reformed. _He_ said that it's just a trick to buy time. He said that the Aurors have been undercover for so long that You-Know-Who doesn't know how many of them there REALLY are, so someone reckoned that if they suddenly started appearing everywhere, it would make him stop and think long enough to get other defenses up."

The three figures on broomsticks began inching back up alongside the train.

"It's really just the same handful, though," said Neville, now looking out the window. Trevor took advantage of the distraction and wriggled free of Neville's hands, but he didn't seem to notice. "They've just been wearing their service uniforms – those nice robes – to draw attention. Gran says my mum and dad never wore theirs. They just framed 'em and hung them up on a wall."

"Sorry, but won't Voldemort _notice _eventually? I mean, he's not exactly _stupid_," said Harry skeptically. It took a moment for him to realize that they had certainly had _him_ fooled, but Neville sighed.

"That's what Gran said. She reckons they should've just stayed undercover."

"How many of them are there?" Harry asked.

"Dunno," said Neville, "but Gran's friend sounded really worried. He made it sound like there were hardly any at all."

"That's Fudge's fault," came Luna's voice from behind _The Quibbler_. The boys looked at her, and Harry could sense what was coming. "There used to be a whole fortress of them right in the middle of London, and Fudge caught wind that they were hoarding treasure there, so –"

But whatever Fudge had planned for the rogue Auror treasure-hunters, Harry never found out. Luna's breath caught in her throat. Harry looked over at her, but he was robbed of his own breath. He suddenly felt cold, cold, cold. Daggers of ice were piercing his skin. Ice water was trickling, between his fingernails, up his spine, and a familiar, faraway dull ache began to pound in the scar on his forehead, coming closer and closer.

"Dementors!" cried Neville.

At that moment, a black figure sped right by the window. Harry looked outside. A small degradation of Dementors was circling and looping through the air nearby. One or two probing creatures swooped here and there, away from the main group.

The Auror and his companions tightened their formation and moved protectively between the degradation and the train. One of the adventurous Dementors dipped close to the train, and the Auror brandished his wand as if cracking a whip, in warning. The Dementor recoiled as though stung, and drifted slightly away, but the rest of the degradation had caught on to the scent, and now a steady stream of black-robed creatures was flying parallel to the tracks.

Harry felt the train tilt subtly to one side. They were entering a wide half-circle around a shallow valley, but this path would now intersect with that of the Dementors. They made their move in a sudden dive towards the train. The three protectors were forced to dodge them, and several of the cloaked figures actually thudded audibly against the roof of the train. The move, however, was effective.

The Auror and his wizard companion had dodged forward, speeding their broomsticks along the path of the train. The Auror had a Patronus out, and was directing it with his wand – what appeared to be a large cave bear. It was thundering along in the air towards the front of the train, chasing after a group of Dementors that had made for the break in between the second and third cars.

The witch companion was about to be devoured alive.

She had avoided the degradation's attack by braking and swerving off of the tracks. It was a Quidditch maneuver that Harry recognized, and it should have worked after she looped around twice in two unpredictable circles. However, a full third of the Dementors had broken off with her, and were now surrounding the witch in midair. They swooped and dove around her as she swerved this way and that on her broom, trying to find an opening. The half-circle in the train tracks had brought her into clear view from their compartment, and Harry could barely make out a thin whisp of silver coming from her wand, growing fainter by the second.

"What –" began Neville, rising out of his seat.

"NO!" shouted Harry, realizing just how much peril the witch faced at that moment, and jumping to his feet. He and Neville wrestled the window of the compartment open. Harry dug his wand out of his jeans, pointed it across the valley, and shouted,

"_Expecto patronum!_"

Nothing happened. No one spoke, and the train rolled right along on its tracks.

Recovering quickly, he tried again.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

This time, Harry felt it – but not the release of the spell. More like a sticky resistance; a reluctance to obey.

_Come on, please go!_ he pleaded furiously with the nothingness. _Save her! I know you can do it! You've done it before!_

Into his imagination, he poured every single thought he could muster of Ron and Hermione; their touch, their scent, and their cheery laughter. Finally, at long last, whatever resistance there had been crumbled, and a brilliant silver stag leapt from his wand and charged across the valley. He watched it go with an intense feeling of relief.

Then he found himself face-to-face with a gigantic black-cloaked figure, with a hideous circular mouth thronged with hundreds of teeth. The largest, darkest, and most foul Dementor he had ever witnessed. He knew instantly two truths: that this was the heart of the degradation, and that he was utterly defeated.

Harry dimly noticed, out of the corner of his mind, that he had fallen to his knees on the floor of the compartment. The world had gone oddly quiet. His wand fell out of his hand, lost to him. The Dementor was leaning into the open window of the train as it sped along, its terrified passengers oblivious to the fate of one Harry Potter.

He had lost. His magic had failed him. He would not even save this one life. His Patronus would not make it to the beleaguered witch in time, and she would be consumed. He, Harry, would die here, and his body would be left soulless and rotten. The best laid plans of mice and men would crumble before the might of Lord Voldemort.

Ron, eventually, would fall in a futile battle, surrounded by the bodies of the students he had sworn to protect. He saw the life extinguished from his best friend's eyes as Death Eaters moved in all around him. Luna Lovegood's hand closed over the pommel of a bone knife, and as she turned to defend his body, she was struck down from behind, with a look of total disbelief so alien to her face.

He saw Hermione, blood shining in her hair as it whipped about her. One moment, her face grit with pain and concentration – the next, her eyes wide open in surprise. She gazed down to see several claws protruding from her midsection. She looked back up. Through teary eyes, she tried to say something to him, but her jaw simply twitched, and blood ran down from the corner of her mouth. She fell to her knees, and the creature standing behind her retracted its clawed hand from her stomach.

As Harry knelt, his body falling slack, slumping backwards onto his heels, with the veritable King of Dementors arching over him, he became aware of a small pressure on his chest.

He looked down to find what appeared to be a snowy hare perched on the front of his shirt. Its fur was silky and glowing, its ears erect. It stood on top of his sternum, defying the great blackness that threatened to swallow him up.

The Dementor made a move as though coiling itself like a spring, in order to strike down the glowing white hare, and Harry along with it. But before it could do anything more, the hare took a flying leap off of Harry's chest.

Abruptly, sound and color returned to the world. The roar of the wind rushing past the open window and the clanging of the train against the tracks were deafening. The Dementor had fled the window, and the rest of the degradation was retreating along with it away from the train, with the glowing white hare hot on its tail.

Harry tried to move, and found he couldn't. Two pairs of hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him onto a seat. The world was awfully noisy now that sound was back, but none of it made sense. He thought could distinguish words amidst muffled haze, and he tried to reply, but his own voice felt thick as though his tongue were weighed down with lead. The sounds started to surge in really close, and then fade out to a great distance.

Then it got _really_ confusing, because his vision began to cut in and out as well. What made it even worse that it wasn't even in sync with the rising and falling of the sounds.

The compartment door rattled noisily open, and he was aware of more voices, before the sound flew away again. He thought someone was shaking him – either that or his head was lolling from one side to another of its own accord. He wished it would stop. He was getting dreadfully dizzy. More voices, this time really, really loud.

His vision cut back in for a second, and he thought he could distinguish several blurs. Something rammed into his teeth. It hurt. There were more voices for a second before his vision AND his hearing went out at the same time.

Then he felt something warm and soothing trickling along the inside of his mouth. It was sweet and comforting and the moment it hit the back of his throat, warmth suddenly shot through his body, right to his very fingertips. The world came spinning back into focus, and the fuzziness around his ears solidified, cracked, and fell away. The clarity of the sound felt almost sterile.

His vision was promptly filled with a scene more confusing than the blurs had been. Neville was backed into a corner, drenched in sweat, and for once Trevor the toad had elected to hide voluntarily in his master's breast pocket. Ron Weasley stood against the far wall, looking far better than Neville, but still as pale as a ghost, and nervously fiddling with not one, but three wands.

What made even _less_ sense was the scene off to his right, where the compartment door had slid off its hinges at an odd angle. The food trolley, of all things, was jammed awkwardly into the open doorway, and sweets had spilled everywhere onto the floor. The plump witch whose job it was to travel the corridor selling snacks was standing behind it with her hands clapped to her mouth.

And finally, there was Hermione. She was half standing over him, half kneeling on him, with her right knee jammed painfully into his thigh. In her left hand, she held her wand. Her right hand was covered in a dripping mass of melted chocolate and tin foil.

He could have sworn he was going to die from irony, when he noticed that the only normal thing in the entire scene was Luna Lovegood, sitting across from them, patiently watching him take it all in.

"Harry?" asked Hermione tentatively, after a second had passed.

"Hermione," he said, "ow."

"OH, sorry!" She backed away, removing her knee from his thigh, and he could feel blood rushing down into his leg.

"H-how are you feeling, mate?" asked Ron, still fiddling with the wands.

Harry tried really hard to figure out a response to that question.

"You remember second year, with your dad's Ford Anglia?"

"Yeah?"

"You remember how we flew it into the Whomping Willow and it got trashed?"

"How could I forget?"

"I feel like the handle on the passenger-side door."

"Ouch."

Harry groaned and put his head in his hands.

"What happened?" he asked, finally looking back up at them.

"You were almost kissed, by the biggest bloody Dementor I've ever seen," said Neville, his voice still shaky, "I thought you were dead for sure. Then Luna somehow got it together and managed to get her Patronus off, and it chased it back out the window."

"Then we came," said Ron, indicating himself and Hermione, "as fast as we could, because we saw it from another car while we were patrolling, and figured something really bad went down."

"You were just sitting there with your mouth hanging open and you were sort-of talking and not making any sense, like you'd gone completely nutters," continued Neville. "And then Hermione had enough sense to run to get some chocolate –" He indicated the food cart, which the portly witch was trying to free from the doorway. It remained resolutely stuck.

"And I tried giving you the chocolate, but you just weren't having it," said Hermione, "So I had to melt it and, well, here we are . . ." she gestured with the hand that was covered in the now fully melted mess.

Harry paused again to take all this in as well. After he felt as though he'd made some progress, he looked back at Ron.

"And why do you have three wands?"

"Oh, uh, here," said Ron, handing him a wand. "One's yours and one's Neville's."

_Another great mystery solved._

"And why is my face wet?"

"You were crying," began Luna.

_Detective Potter, they'll call me_._ I bet I'm still crying, actually._

"– You still are," she finished.

_Damn I'm good._

He tried to dry his face on his shirt, but got a faceful of melted chocolate instead.

"Oh, Harry, here," said Hermione, and she swished her wand. "_Scourgify!"_

"Thanks, Hermione," he said, drying his eyes on his now clean shirt.

"Are you okay?" she asked, sitting beside him after removing the liquefied chocolate from her own hand.

"Yeah, thanks to you guys," he replied shakily.

Ron, though not having recovered his full facial color, managed to unjam the trolley from the doorway with his wand, and set about helping the witch replace the sweets. A quick _reparo_ later, and the door was back on its hinges.

Harry found that he had trouble looking at Ron or Hermione. The images the Dementor had shown him had been the most vivid and haunting things he'd ever seen in his life. Ron falling, ever defiant, but powerless; Hermione's expression of shock as she was felled by a beast from hell.

"Harry, you're shaking. What's wrong?" asked Hermione, with a hand on his shoulder.

"The usual," he said, trying to wave his hand dismissively. "Dementor, horrible images, scar hurting, et cetera."

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked in a low voice meant for only him and Ron to hear, but Neville was staring blankly out the window in an effort to recoup, and Luna was unwrapping a bar of chocolate to share with him.

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to think about it at all. If he tried to tell them, he'd probably just vomit.

Then he realized something.

"What happened to the witch?"

"What witch?" asked Ron, having finished with the situation at the doorway.

"The witch that we tried to save from the Dementors," he clarified, turning to Neville.

Neville's eyes grew wide, and he shrugged.

"She's fine," came a deep voice from the doorway, which made them all jump. The tall Auror stood there in his midnight black robes. From this proximity, the blue trim positively glowed. There was also a set of red chevrons embroidered into the right breast of the garment, and a silver sword and shield on the left.

Harry began to rise to greet the man, but the Auror waved him down.

"Please, relax," he said soothingly. "Miss Spinnet would undoubtedly have come to thank you on her own, but she is currently recovering from her ordeal in another car."

"Spinnet? Alicia Spinnet?" asked Harry, amazed that he hadn't recognized his own Quidditch teammate.

"Yes, do you know her?" asked the Auror.

"We used to play Quidditch together," he replied.

"Yes, well, your patronus kept all of the Dementors at bay – not one of them touched her," said the man. He reached over to shake Harry's hand. "Jason Proudfoot," he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter."

"You too," said Harry.

"And you're the one with the hare patronus?" he asked Hermione, who shook her head.

"That would be Luna's," she said, indicating the blond Ravenclaw across from her.

Proudfoot offered her his hand as well, congratulating her on a most impressive display of magic.

The Auror left shortly to resume his patrol. The level of morale in their compartment seemed to slowly recover as the train sped away from the site of the skirmish, and conversation finally resurfaced half an hour later.

Harry could not bring himself to join in, however, until Ron brought up the subject of Malfoy –

"He wasn't at the prefects' meeting," he said conspiratorially to Harry. "We found him later, just sitting by himself in an empty compartment. Didn't even bat an eyelash when we asked him why he wasn't patrolling. Just nodded us off."

– Which only piled on top of everything else Harry was worrying about. He continued to brood even as they neared Hogwarts, and though Ron and Hermione kept sneaking looks at him, they got nothing out of him.

Around nightfall, they changed over into their school robes. Neville had somehow lost his Gryffindor badge, and Luna had to conjure him a temporary one to fasten his mantle about his shoulders.

"It shouldn't disintegrate at least until the feast is over," she said, pinning it for him.

No sooner had they disembarked from the train car at Hogsmeade Station, luggage in hand, than Professor McGonagall swooped down upon the five of them, ushering them to the first carriage in line. From the horrified looks on Ron's and Hermione's faces, Harry deduced that they could now actually see the thestrals pulling the line of carriages. Once loaded, their carriage took off towards the castle at a breakneck speed, ahead of the full crowd.

They remained seated in McGonagall's office until Madam Pomfrey bustled in to give each of them a cursory inspection. Harry had an odd sense of déjà vu as she tried to examine his eyes.

"I trust you've all at _least_ had your chocolate," she said finally, to which the response was a chorus of "Yes, Madam Pomfrey."

It was when they finally made their way down to the Great Hall for the feast that Harry at long last breathed a sigh of relief. They had missed the Sorting. At least _some _things hadn't changed. He was home at last.

* * *

Have not yet decided whether the next chapter will include the feast.

**About this story: **_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ and its sequel take place after _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. They are meant to be read in place of _Half-Blood Prince_ and _Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . how did you even _get _this far anyway? Couldn't you just stop reading? Why are you even paying attention to this note?_

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts, and that's not even definite. :D

Thanks for reading! Remember, nothing fuels writing abilities better than two cases of energy drinks (per author, per chapter).


	9. Ch9: On Defense

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _Some (tiny bits of) material also borrowed from: d20 system and Dragon Age.

**Author's Note:** This was going to be part of a Christmas double-post, but we got busy. Chapter ten is about halfway done, most likely will be out before New Year.

Also PDF and (broken) EPUB formats for this story are now online, for anyone interested. Check the author profile for the link.

Also in the author profile: a link to some SotF promotional art! One step closer to having chapter cover art . . .

This chapter is a throwback to waaay back when, in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, we actually had a scene in Flitwick's charms class of the First Years learning a spell in class.

**Important**(ish) note regarding canon and other things: HP Lexicon's timeline shows the founding of Hogwarts to be before the year 993 AD, with the creation of the Chamber of Secrets in the early 1000s. In this story, we've pushed this back so that Hogwarts was founded c. 940ish AD. This would allow the Grey Lady's mother to have been present for the Battle of Brunanburh, which took place in 937 AD. This means that the Chamber of Secrets would have been created sometime earlier than the Lexicon indicates, between 950-960 AD.

Also, a later chapter is still in danger of increasing the rating of this story from T to M, because of gore. Still considering writing a T-friendly version and a separate M version, but we shall see.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Nine

"On Defense"

27 December 2010

FanFictionDotNet Edit

_And now shall we vie with Fate herself–_

_Heed this warning, all those who dare:_

_Repeat not the Sins of the Founders,_

_Lest we all fall into Her eternal care._

– from the Sorting Hat's song, 1996.

They entered the Great Hall just as 'Zenio, Choi' was sorted into Slytherin, Madam Pomfrey propelling them towards their respective tables. The scattered applause died out as the matron ushered Luna off towards the Ravenclaw table, and all eyes gradually turned to watch the remaining Gryffindors take their seats. True to form, they hadn't been in the Great Hall for more than a few seconds when the whispering started.

Keeping his eyes focused on the Head Table, Harry followed Ron and Hermione as they moved down the table to a row of open seats. Out of the corner of his eye, he could plainly see that the student turnout this year was, for the first time in all his years at Hogwarts, noticeably low. Neville sat down on the opposite side of the table beside Dean Thomas and Ginny, who immediately began assaulting him with questions. Harry, Hermione, and Ron took their seats across from Seamus Finnigan and Katie Bell.

"Hey Harry, heard you almost died again," said Seamus by way of greeting.

Harry grunted, acknowledging that it had been a thoroughly appropriate way to begin a conversation. Ron, on the other hand, looked him curiously.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

Seamus gave them an incredulous look and waved towards the rest of the student body.

"Reckon the whole train saw what happened," he said, "Ruddy great big Dementor hanging half out the window and all."

"Was Alicia okay?" asked Katie fearfully.

"Yeah, she's fine," began Harry. He was about to explain Proudfoot's appearance when Dumbledore stood up and made his way around the staff table to speak.

Hermione let out a gasp when he came into full view.

"What happened to his hand?" she asked, her eyes wide.

She hadn't been the only one to notice, and the whispered discussion had shifted from the Dementor attack earlier that evening to Dumbledore's heavily bandaged hand. Harry swore he could barely make out what seemed to be blood seeping through the bandages.

"It was like that when he came to pick me up this summer," said Harry. "I thought it would have healed up by now though. It looks like it's still bleeding."

"Well," said Hermione tentatively, "there _are_ curses that can take months to heal from, but – oh, what could he have done to it? I've never heard of anything that causes persistent bleeding . . ."

Dumbledore was evidently well aware that his audience was more focused on his injury than on his impending speech, so he waved his wand with his left hand, and his right hand quickly faded from view. Harry recognized it as having been Disillusioned.

"Now, now," began Dumbledore, smiling warmly at the crowd, "nothing to worry about at all. Let us turn to the business at hand, and welcome each other back to another glorious year of education!" At this, he raised both arms in welcome to the rest of the Great Hall.

Whatever welcoming there was to be had would be very brief, thought Harry, seeing that there were a good deal of empty seats where there should be students.

"Has everyone gone mad?" asked Harry incredulously. "Why haven't they come back to school?"

Hermione thought about this for a moment before answering.

"Well, Voldemort _has_ returned, hasn't he? Presumably they wanted to keep their kids at home where they'd be safe –"

"Yeah," began Harry, "but isn't the safest place, well, here? Where Dumbledore is?"

Hermione looked like she was formulating an answer, but she was interrupted when Dumbledore began to speak again.

"Before we begin the feast, there are a few announcements I must make."

"Oh bugger, hurry up! I'm _starving_ –" groaned Ron, but nonetheless gave his attention to Dumbledore along with the rest of the hall.

"First of all, I ask that you all join me in congratulating Professor Snape, who has been reassigned to the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts!"

"_What_–?" Harry began to protest, but whatever complaint he was about to register was drowned out by the triumphant applause that burst forth from the Slytherin table.

Harry gaped at Dumbledore for a moment before turning his attention back to the Gryffindors seated around him.

"I thought Dumbledore didn't _trust_ Snape to teach Defense!" said Ron, his mouth making shapes at Harry like a fish.

Harry was about to reply in agreement when he noticed that Snape showed no signs of triumph, as would have befitted his character. No, Snape simply sat in his seat and scowled, which threw Harry off his self-righteous train of thought.

"Why's he so glum then?" he asked. "Isn't this what he's always wanted, after having his eyes on the job for so long?"

Ron shrugged, but Dumbledore began speaking again.

"And it is with great pleasure that I announce that, in a show of faith from the leaders of our magical community, Professor Snape will be sharing the endeavor of preparing us all for the dark times to come by the Aurors Mister Proudfoot and Miss Altrichter, who will be serving as guest lecturers and tutors–"

This time the applause from the Gryffindor table was more enthusiastic, but was also in danger of being drowned out by the excited whispers that accompanied this revelation.

Harry looked over to the end of the table furthest away from him, where he hadn't noticed Proudfoot sitting before. Beside him was a blond woman who Harry assumed was Altrichter – Professor Altrichter? The two Aurors looked rather out of place beside the other teachers, with Proudfoot in his crisp service uniform and Altrichter wearing some kind of equally sharp straight-collared blue robe with similar decorations.

"She's a real looker, isn't she?" came Ron's awed voice from beside him. Hermione reached around Harry and smacked Ron on the back of the head.

"Ow! Well she is!" he protested, rubbing his head ruefully.

"What's she wearing?" asked Harry, "How many different uniforms do Aurors have anyway?"

Hermione squinted, trying to make out the female Auror, who was also sitting on the other side of Proudfoot further from the Gryffindors.

"She German?" guessed Seamus from across the table, "or maybe Czech?"

"No, American," said Hermione finally. "You see that eagle device she's wearing on her chest?"

"Well, no wonder Snape's not happy," said Ron. "All this waiting and he finally gets the job he's always wanted, and now he's got to learn to share? Must be a nightmare."

"Yeah," agreed Harry, "and the Aurors will be able to keep an eye on him . . ."

"On a related note," continued Dumbledore in a grave voice, after the excited chatter had died down, "As everyone present knows, Lord Voldemort has made his reappearance, and once again he and his followers threaten our lives and freedom, Muggles and magical alike."

Harry half expected the hall to break out again in chatter, but the attention of the student body remained raptly fixed on the Headmaster.

"To prepare us for the difficult times ahead, Accelerated Defense lessons will begin in the fourth week of term for sixth years and above. These lessons will be considered extracurricular, though you are highly encouraged to participate if you are eligible. They will be conducted by Professor Snape, again with the help of Mister Proudfoot and Miss Altrichter–"

"Ha!" said Ron, "This just keeps getting better and better!"

Snape's face was by now most unpleasant, and Harry could have sworn that Snape had glared at him briefly as though it were entirely his fault.

"Who's do you think is teaching Potions?" asked Hermione. "There are several other Professors that I don't even recognize . . ."

Then, as if on cue, Dumbledore motioned with his visible hand to indicate another man sitting at the table.

"The position of Potions master will be taken up by an old friend and former colleague of mine, Professor Slughorn."

Professor Slughorn smiled and waved back at them jovially in response to their welcoming applause. He was an overweight and balding old man, and for the occasion had donned what appeared to be a well-worn leather vest over a nice shirt. In the hand he waved, he held a matching leather hat with a wide brim.

"Slughorn!" said Ron, his eyes wide, "I know that name. He used to work for Gringotts."

"You know him then?" asked Hermione curiously.

"Not really," said Ron, "but Bill talked about him sometimes. He was the expedition boss for Bill's expedition boss before Bill joined as a curse breaker. Said he quit digging around in the pyramids and filed for early retirement – got spooked or something real bad. Bill reckons he found some real dark magic in one of the tombs. Scarred him for life."

"Oh don't be silly Ron," said Hermione, "he looks perfectly fine."

Harry had to admit that Slughorn's beaming face did look a lot more good-humored at the moment than did all the other Professors at the staff table. He also stood out from the other Professors, who were wearing their usual robes.

"I'm telling you," insisted Ron, shaking his head, "Bill's boss believed it too. And Bill's seen some really dark stuff himself –" He was cut off by the continuation of Dumbledore's speech.

"As always, our caretaker Mister Filch would like me to inform you that in addition to the Forbidden Forest being off limits as usual, products from the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes joke shop in Diagon Alley are expressly forbidden on school grounds. And that, I think, is the last note of importance. Let the feast begin!"

The feast began in earnest at these words, and the trays in front of them filled to the brim with food. Harry couldn't help but think it was a bit excessive, considering that there had been a noticeable drop in the number of students seated at the tables.

Ron tucked into his food with the gusto that only he could ever seem to muster, while Hermione and Katie looked on with expressions of disgusted awe.

"How do you _do_ that? Katie asked, as he finished off his first portion of tenderloin.

Ron's wide eyed expression indicated that he had no clue what she was talking about, and he simply reached for another serving.

Harry, on the other hand, could not bring himself to concentrate on his food, and contented himself with moving his food around on his plate with his fork. He was not hungry in the slightest. If he would have ventured a guess, it would be that he was still shaken up from the Dementor attack, but physically he felt completely fine. No chills, no headaches, or scars hurting.

It was something that had to do with the fact that he could not look at Hermione or Ron without feeling a sense of profound dread. The images the Dementor had shown him had been so real that they seemed like they should have been memories. But when had Ron ever died in a fight? Probably not once, or else Nearly Headless Nick would not be staring at him forlornly as he shoveled down plate after plate of food.

And Harry was almost ninety nine percent sure that Hermione had never been stabbed in the back, much less with claws.

Of course, he could just be imagining it, and they were all actually dead already.

"Harry, what's wrong?" came Hermione's voice, jarring him back to reality.

"Hm?" he said, hurriedly taking a bite of whatever was on his fork. Unfortunately it turned out to be a chunk of butter.

Still, he soldiered on with his ruse, attempting to chew the creamy butter with a straight face. Unfortunately, Hermione had apparently been paying far too much attention to him, and was staring at him incredulously while he tried his best to look innocent.

Seeing that she was not going to give up so easily, Harry raised his eyebrows in an expression that clearly said, '_What_?'

Hermione returned a look that clearly meant '_Are you serious_?' to which Harry had no response. He swallowed the butter.

"Nothing's wrong, Hermione," he said, digging the fork back into his plate.

"Oh really," she asked, eyebrows raised, "then why haven't you been eating? We barely had anything on the train."

"I am," he protested, lifting the fork back up to his mouth. As luck would have it, he had managed to spear an entire dinner roll onto the end of it. In an effort to make it look like he'd intended to do this, he began nibbling at the edge of the bread. In the end, he wasn't sure why he had thought that would work.

"Let me guess, to go with that stick of butter you just ate," Hermione deadpanned. Her expression softened when she saw him put his fork down resignedly.

"You can tell me, Harry. You know that, right?" Harry could see her eyes filled with concern, but he didn't think he could stomach talking about the Dementor at the moment.

"Yeah, I know," he told her, "but not right now. Please, Hermione."

She hesitated a second longer before nodding in understanding.

"You have to eat something, at least," she said, scooping small portions of the nearest dishes onto a new plate for him. Only now did he look down at his food and see that he had managed to load his plate with nothing but butter, dinner rolls, and what appeared to be a head of lettuce from the decorative cornucopia nearby.

More to keep Hermione from asking him any more questions than from actual interest, Harry joined in the conversation surrounding them.

"What happened before we got here?" he asked Seamus. "Anything interesting?"

Seamus made a face.

"Nothin' really," he said, chewing thoughtfully. "Well, th' Sorting Hat had a bit more to say, but it was more of the same. Something about the sins of the Founders, and sticking together, unity and stuff. The same as last year."

"Oh, Professor McGonagall told me I'm going to be Quidditch captain this year," Katie interjected. "You'll be coming to tryouts, right? Both of you?"

Harry and Ron nodded in earnest.

"Great! We'll hold them next week, I think, once everyone settles into classes."

The end of the feast came as a welcome relief to Harry. Despite his attempts at normality, Hermione had been throwing suspicious glances at him the whole time, and he was forced to eat everything she put on his plate, lest Ron catch on as well. Together, they trudged up the stairs towards the Gryffindor Tower, eager for their welcoming beds.

* * *

The first week of classes kicked off for the newly risen Sixth Years with a visit to their heads of houses for a bit of counseling with their N.E.W.T. level classes.

Professor McGonagall was already attending a line of Gryffindors when Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way upstairs from the Great Hall after breakfast. They fell in line behind Neville, who was standing at the end, nervously clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

Hermione was being so characteristically fretful about whether she'd be cleared to attend all of her classes that Harry and Ron all but pushed her into the room ahead of them. She emerged a bit flushed, having been immediately cleared for Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, and Transfiguration. After bidding Harry and Ron a hasty goodbye, she sped off to her first period Arithmancy class.

Harry went in next, and handed Professor McGonagall the parchment onto which had hurriedly scribbled his chosen classes. She looked it over with a critical eye.

"Everything looks fine here, Potter," she said eventually, checking off Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Transfiguration. "But why have you not chosen to continue you study of Potions? Did you not say last Term that you wished to become an Auror?"

"Er, yeah, well, Professor Snape said we'd need an 'Outstanding' to be in Potions this year, didn't he?"

"Yes, well, he is not the Potions master any longer. Professor Slughorn is quite willing to accept your 'Exceeds Expectations' for his N.E.W.T. class."

"But Professor, I don't have any books or ingredients –"

"Simply ask Professor Slughorn if you can borrow from his stores until the first Hogsmeade weekend in October," she said, handing him a schedule. "I am sure you will find Professor Slughorn to be very accommodating. Are you aware that you also have a lesson with Professor Dumbledore this week?"

"Er, no," he said, surprised.

"Well, now you are. It will be on Friday, during the evening period. Now, I shall see you for Transfiguration in the third period this afternoon. Good day, Potter."

Not long afterwards, Ron was cleared for the same classes as Harry, and emerged triumphantly from Professor McGonagall's office, waving his schedule at Harry.

"Look," he said excitedly, "free periods all morning!"

Unfortunately, whatever hopes for a reprieve they had been expecting for taking a smaller number of classes were soon dashed to the ground. On Tuesday alone, Professors Flitwick and Sprout had assigned them such a large workload that Harry could have sworn they should be having an exam by the end of the third week of classes. He and Ron spent their free period on Tuesday afternoon loafing around in the Gryffindor Common Room only to discover that evening that the Charms homework they had received would take far longer than anticipated, and with double Defense Against the Dark Arts the next day, they would be hard pressed to find time for everything they had to do.

On Wednesday, the Gryffindor and Slytherin Sixth Years were scheduled for a full day of Defense Against the Dark Arts, with Professor Snape in the morning period just before lunch and Miss Altrichter in the afternoon period just after lunch.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was not, as they had all expected, in Snape's dungeon, but rather in the same location it had been every year. The Gryffindors and Slytherins lined up in the corridor along opposite walls, conversing amongst themselves while eyeing the other group with the traditional suspicion and mild distrust.

"What do you think he'll have us do?" asked Ron, who was fiddling with his Prefect badge that clasped his mantle together. "Use us as dummies to show everyone how jinxes work?"

"No, Ron," said Hermione exasperatedly. She was still carrying the books from her morning Ancient Runes class, which threatened to slip out of her arms.

"Hermione," said Harry, reaching over and taking the topmost volume, a thick tome titled Rune Working, Beginner Level Three. "Why are you still taking this many classes? With the workload Ron and I are getting with just ours, you won't even have time to eat."

"Well, you know . . ." she said distractedly, "Never hurts to be prepared."

"What's this even useful for?" he persisted, flipping through the first few pages of Rune Working. He was immediately assaulted by pages full of tables upon tables of runes, without an English word in sight.

"Oh, well," she said, looking over at the book he had taken, "Ancient runes used to be used a lot in spellcrafting way back in, well, ancient times. Nowadays only a few spells still use them. In the field you see a lot more Arithmancy - Ron, will you stop fiddling with that?"

Ron was still fingering his badge and as he quickly drew his hand away, it came loose and his mantle slid off his shoulders, and he dropped quickly to catch it. Unfortunately, Professor Snape chose that moment to round the corner, eyeing them maliciously.

"A Prefect out of uniform, Weasley. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Ignoring Ron's look of protest, he strode over to the door and unlocked it.

"In," he snapped at them, and swept into the room.

Hermione gave Ron a look that plainly said '_I told you_,' and followed Harry into the classroom amidst the snickering of the Slytherins.

The Defense classroom appeared a lot more menacing under Snape's care. Gigantic metal shutters that hadn't been there the previous year blocked out the sunlight, and instead the room was lit by candles sitting on sconces, in the same fashion as Snape's gloomy dungeon. Across one wall of the classroom was spread a great tapestry, depicting fascinatingly horrible scenes of death and destruction.

"_Sit down_," Snape commanded impatiently, as the students trickled in. Harry's attention apparently hadn't been the only one that had been drawn to the great tapestry, with its many illustrations of soldiers, knights, and wizards, most of which were dying gruesomely, whether consumed by fire or being eaten alive by other men.

"Put those away," said Snape, seeing that many of them had put away their wands and taken out their textbooks – a habit developed under the tutelage of Dolores Umbridge the previous year. "Do nothing unless I tell you to – you will find that this year, your education in Defense Against the Dark Arts will be far more thorough than it has ever been in the past, and that you will want to follow my every word, lest you bring injury upon yourself."

He said this in an awfully transparent tone that told them he was hoping with every fiber in his body that at least one of them might do something stupid. They hurriedly stuffed their textbooks back into their bags.

"The Dark Arts," began Snape, walking over to the side of the classroom that held the tapestry, "are ever changing. Every day, new practices are developed, even as old ones are rendered obsolete. Strike down a dark wizard, and an apprentice rises to take his place, far cleverer than his master. Even the old dark spells are continually evolving –" he made an exaggerated gesture towards one side of the tapestry.

"This tapestry was woven by the Grey Lady, whom I assume you all know to be the ghost of the Ravenclaw House. This is the great battle that the Muggles refer to as the Battle of Brunanburh – it is also the first recorded use of Inferi in the British Isles. Now, who can tell me what an Inferius is?"

Hermione's hand shot up into the air, but so did Parvati Patil's. Naturally, Snape avoided looking in Hermione's direction.

"Miss Patil?"

"It's – a dead body that can move?" she said uncertainly.

Snape made an impatient noise.

"An Inferius is a corpse that has been enchanted to do the bidding of a dark wizard. The creation of Inferi has been recounted many times in history, but even so, the Inferi today are vast improvements over their tenth century brethren," he said, turning again to look at the tapestry with disdain. "They are faster, more durable, stronger –"

"Sir, it's not just a rumor, then?" asked Parvati in a timid voice. "You-Know-Who is using Inferi?"

Snape eyed her coldly for a moment before answering, "Yes. He has used them before, and he is using them again. Most of the noteworthy dark wizards in history have created Inferi, simply because it is efficient to kill and increase their following simultaneously."

Snape made his way back to the front of the classroom.

"Now, who can tell me what the two components of spellcasting are?" he said, leaning forward onto the desk with his arms. Unsurprisingly, Hermione's hand shot up immediately, leaving Harry wondering what on earth he'd been studying for the past five years, since this was completely unfamiliar territory to him.

"Miss Granger," he snarled ten seconds later, when no one else raised their hands.

"The two components of spellcasting are the verbal component, meaning the spoken incantation, and the somatic component, meaning the wand and hand movement."

"That is correct," said Snape grudgingly, turning to write the words on the blackboard. "I suppose then you can tell me, Miss Granger, which is more important?"

"Yes, sir," said Hermione without missing a beat. "The somatic component is usually absolutely required to cast a spell, because it is the key to the wand's energy direction properties –"

"That's enough," he snapped. "Now, for all intents and purposes, the somatic component is always required. However, it is possible to cast nonverbal spells. Imagine you are in the midst of a duel. If you shout _Impedimenta_, what is your opponent going to think?"

This time, Snape ignored Hermione's perpetually raised hand in favor of Pansy Parkinson.

"He'll know you're using the Impediment Jinx and block it?"

"Yes," said Snape, still writing on the blackboard. "And if you simply place your wand into the second low guard?"

"You could be using the Impediment Jinx," piped up Dean Thomas, "or you could also be using the Misdirection Hex, or the Dancing Feet Jinx."

"Minus five points. Raise your hand, Thomas, or next time Gryffindor will go into the negative," Snape said coldly. Harry felt the back of his neck grow hot, but bit his tongue.

"Obviously," said Snape, putting down his chalk, "using nonverbal spells will give you the upper hand in a duel, if the opponent cannot read your exact intentions. It is possible, of course to block the spell with a protection charm of the proper caliber. For instance, for most moderate jinxes they stand the greatest chance by using the Shield Charm, which, while reliable, is inefficient, and they will tire quickly. You will now break into pairs, and attempt to use the Jelly-Legs Jinx without speaking the incantation. The defending partner will attempt to block it using either the Anti-Jinx, or a Shield Charm, but you must also do so in silence."

For the next hour, the entire class fumbled around with their wands, attempting to cast the spells in silence. Halfway through, many of the students had given up, and were simply whispering the spells to themselves. Ron's tiny mutter evidently did not have very much conviction, for Harry's knee simply twitched slightly when he failed to block.

Finally, a minute later, Hermione managed to jinx Neville into a little puddle without moving her mouth at all. Harry noted sourly that this should have netted Gryffindor at least ten points, but Snape was making a point of looking in completely the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, she was the only one to do so for the remainder of the class period. Therefore, it was no surprise that Snape assigned them the most homework out of all the professors they had had so far during the week.

When they returned from lunch for their second period of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Miss Altrichter was already waiting for them in the room. It appeared that the gloom that followed Snape had fled the room with him, and the great big shutters were wide open, allowing sunlight to stream in through the windows. The large morbid tapestry had been hidden from view by a great blue curtain, and the candles had been snuffed out.

Harry's first impression of the American Auror was the polar opposite of Snape. She greeted the class with a great big smile and wave as they entered the classroom. Now that he had a closer view than he had had at the feast, Harry had to agree with Ron in that she didn't look half bad. If he had to guess, he would have put her at around the same age as Tonks.

"Good afternoon everybody," she said after the last few students had trickled in. "Welcome to the second half of the Sixth Year Defense class. As some of you may know, Professor Snape will be teaching on Wednesday mornings, and I will usually take the afternoon session. He will be covering the core material that you will be tested on at the N.E.W.T. level, and this second session will supplement everything you learn in the core curriculum –"

At this, Seamus raised his hand.

"Yes, Mister –?"

"Seamus Finnigan, ma'am," said Seamus. "Does this mean that we don't need to be tested on this stuff? Or do homework or anything?"

"In my experience," the Auror replied, "while it isn't explicitly stated in the curriculum, you will find that a N.E.W.T. in Defense is much easier to obtain if you take this class seriously. And besides, I assume you are aware of the times we live in, Mister Finnigan? Don't you think it would behoove you to learn these lessons well, considering that they might become part of your everyday life?"

"Yes, ma'am," Seamus conceded humbly.

She continued looking at them all very seriously for a moment longer, before she threw them off completely again by breaking into an impish smile.

"So, shall we get right to it?" she said, and without waiting for an answer, she cleared the board of Snape's earlier notes with a wave of her wand, and began writing her own.

"Am I correct in assuming that you all have some basic experience with the Shield Charm?" she asked the class. Everyone nodded, though Harry had been expecting this especially from everyone he'd tutored in the D.A. the previous year. Either the Slytherins had, too, or they just didn't want to lose face in front of the Gryffindors.

"Well then," she continued, "Can anyone tell me some of the pros and cons of the Shield Charm?"

Predictably, Hermione was the only one who raised her hand. Harry himself was stumped for cons, besides the fact that it could not block the Avada Kedavra.

"Yes, Miss –?"

"Granger, ma'am," said Hermione. "The Shield Charm is very useful because depending on the power of the witch or wizard, it can deflect most moderate jinxes or curses. However, in terms of energy consumption, it is very inefficient when compared to the proper Anti-Jinx or Counter-Curse. Also, once your opponent knows you have a Shield Charm activated, breaking it is pretty straightforward."

"Very good, Miss Granger!" said Miss Altrichter excitedly. "Ten points to Gryffindor! Wait, I can do that, right? That's how it works? Well, let's just hope it registers –" she continued scribbling on the board, which didn't really help that much, because her handwriting looked like a jumbled mess of squiggles.

"There are, of course, alternatives to the Shield Charm. The most efficient method to avoid being hit is to use the appropriate Counter-Curse or Anti-Jinx. I believe you've been instructed in their use?"

The class nodded collectively. Harry recalled in Fourth Year when they'd had several classes under the Moody-impostor on hex-deflection.

"Unfortunately for us, these methods aren't much use outside of a school dueling club - if you're counting on your opponent shouting incantations or reading his body language in the middle of a fight, you may as well roll over dead to save him the trouble.

"There are some spells that block others by nature - for instance, a Stunning Spell can be used to block a Reductor Curse. But more often than not, this is more likely to happen because of bad aim rather than on purpose."

Parvati raised her hand uncertainly.

"Yes, Miss –?"

"Patil, ma'am," she said, "How are we supposed to know what spells block each other?"

"A good question," said Miss Altrichter approvingly. "Unfortunately it comes down to memorization, because there is no general rule. You might try looking in the appendix of _The Standard Book of Spells, A Reference_. You won't be tested on it, but it is good information to know offhand.

"Anyhow, between the two primary methods we've discussed, that is, the Shield Charm and the appropriate Counter-Curse, we have two extremes. One is the catch-all but drains you very quickly, and the other is the ideal, but there's hardly ever an opportunity to use them. The middle of the road is a Charm called the Disruption Ward.

"Don't worry," she said, noting the startled look on Hermione's and Parvati's faces. "It's a misnomer; true Wards are too complicated to actually use on the fly during a fight. It's closer to any other Charm."

This satisfied Harry, who hadn't been concerned in the slightest, having had no experience with Wards in the first place. The rest of the class kept a poker face as well and pretended this made sense to them.

She finished scratching 'Disruption Ward' onto the board and strode over to the front of the class, wand in hand.

"Repeat the incantation after me: _Interpello_!"

"_Interpello_!" they chorused.

"Now," she said, raising her wand. "The wand movement is simple, but casting properly is hard. You simply hold the wand, and from any position, you make an arc in the air with both wand and hand, moving in the direction that the back of your hand is facing –" she swept her hand in a broad motion.

"Simple, right? So why do you think it is difficult to cast? Anyone?"

No one raised their hands, not even Hermione. Harry looked at her and saw that she looked like she was trying to work something out in her head.

"Want to try a guess, Miss Granger?" asked the Auror, also noticing this.

"Well," said Hermione tentatively, "with the Shield Charm, you point the wand and it just kind of forms half a bubble in the direction you're pointing, but this one is more like the Severing Charm, which you have to aim."

"That is correct," said Miss Altrichter. "Now, for spells that require a pointing motion with the wand, such as the Stunning Spell, it does not matter what direction you sweep your hand. Up, down, left, right, it's all the same. You'll find that the incoming spell will rebound in the direction of your sweep.

"On the other hand, for spells such as the Severing Charm, the direction of your hand motion has a different effect. If the Severing Charm were coming at me horizontally, and I made a horizontal arc like so ," – she swung her arm out horizontally from her body – "we would have what is called a _minor deflection_, and the spell would be only slightly redirected, meaning it could very well hit the Auror standing to my left or right.

"If I make a vertical arc," – again she made the motion with her wand – "we would have a _major deflection_, and the spell would be more likely to rebound back towards my opponent. A good rule of thumb is to try to get a fifty to ninety degree angle between your spells.

"Timing is also more important, because the spell isn't persistent, like the Shield Charm. Your window of opportunity is between the time your opponent is halfway through his incantation, and the time that the spell reaches you.

"Now, let's get up from our seats, and move all the desks to the outside of the room. You will partner up and practice the Disruption Ward for the rest of the class. Non-injuring jinxes only! That means Jelly-Legs and Impediment, fine; but obviously no Severing Charms!"

What ensued was probably the most rewarding practice session Harry had could remember in a Defense Against the Dark Arts class ever since Lupin had been their professor in Third Year. He got the hang of it in about fifteen minutes, and once actually succeeded in hitting Ron with his own rebounded Tickling Charm.

Unfortunately for Harry, Neville also succeeded in deflecting Hermione's Scouring Charm – a minor deflection, which sent the Charm sailing straight into Harry, and he had to endure her laughter as he spat out soap water while she siphoned suds out of his hair.

Satisfied that the class for the most part had absorbed the lesson, Miss Altrichter dismissed them without so much as a hint of homework, for which they were all grateful. Harry, Ron, and Hermione trailed the rest of the classroom as it emptied after they had levitated the desks back into the center of the room.

"She's really cool," said Seamus as they walked down the hallway back towards the Gryffindor Tower. "Couldn't read a word she wrote, but who gives a damn about that anyway?"

"And she's attractive," reminded Ron.

"She could also hex you into the ground seven different ways," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "But yes, that was refreshing after a year of dealing with Umbridge."

"Well, there's still Snape to deal with," said Harry, "But maybe this year won't be so bad, even with all the other classes. Wish Flitwick would assign less homework though."

"Ugh, why did you remind me . . ." groaned Ron, and together they stepped in through the portrait hole behind the other Gryffindors.

* * *

Next chapter: we break magic. Hell, it's broken enough in the canon world as it is.

**About this story: **_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ and its sequel take place after _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. They are meant to be read in place of _Half-Blood Prince_ and _Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . how did you even _get _this far anyway? Couldn't you just stop reading? Why are you even paying attention to this note?_

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts, with sixteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

Thanks for reading!


	10. Ch10: Magical Me

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some of the text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books_. _Some (tiny bits of) material also borrowed from: d20 system, Forgotten Realms, Dragon Age, perhaps other sources that slip the mind.

**Author's Notes: **Been a long month.

**Before you ragequit, **remember these two truths: 1) there's always a catch, and 2) Harry was a Mary Sue in the first place anyway . . . But in all honesty, just because Harry's a special little boy doesn't mean that it'll be easy, or even that he'll win the war.

**Notes** regarding canon and other things: We're going to assimilate Fay Dunbar into the book-based canon. For those of you unfamiliar with her, she's a Gryffindor (sixth year at this time) who is only really seen in the video game/movie universe, and mentioned only in passing (and not by name) in the books.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Ten

"Magical Me"

25 January 2011

FanFictionDotNet Edit

"_. . . and the apparent kidnapping of Miss Catherine Bearfeather, has raised more questions about the Ministry's ability to protect its own personnel. Miss Bearfeather was apprenticed to Master Healer Bethel Hubbard, and was reported missing on Wednesday morning. Neighbors claim that she did not return from her daily Floo commute the prior evening._

_ Amidst the alarm surrounding Miss Bearfeather's disappearance, rumors have surfaced that the famed Auror, CSgt. Alastor Moody, has once again come out of retirement . . ._"

– from _The Daily Prophet_, 6 September 1996 issue.

Stumping hurriedly along a deserted alleyway in a dark corner of Edinburgh, the old Auror grumbled in irritation. He'd survived the Area-Blasting Charm without so much as a scratch, but his Cleansweep was in splinters. Damn twig of a broom, always preferred the Solidbranch line of cargo brooms. More durable. More likely to survive a bloody _explosion_.

His magical eye swiveled upwards in time to catch a fleeting shadow take a flying leap from one ladderwell to the next. The Death Eater he'd been hounding since midnight was no rookie. Moody had caught sight of his face in the explosion and identified him as Apner, but Apner would never have been crafty enough to elude him for this long. Goddamn Polyjuice.

However, Moody had been all over this residential zone in the past week. He knew the terrain – he just needed a better position.

He ducked into an alcove and passed right through the illusionary door he had placed there yesterday, entering a dusty, box-filled basement. Whipping his wand, he turned on the spot, and the loud _crack_ of his Apparition was consumed by layers of cardboard.

Rematerializing on the opposite side of the apartment block, Moody tucked his wand under the thumb of the hand holding his walking stick, and hauled himself partway up the fire escape on the side of the building.

A quick penetration scry with the magical eyeball confirmed that the target was headed in his direction, but the vision cut out abruptly. He cursed softly and rubbed at the eyeball. Stupid thing was getting old. Should look into a replacement. Hmph, forget the eyeball, _he_ was getting old. Gathering himself, he clambered upwards one more flight of stairs. No time for an Anti-Apparition Ward. Just catch him.

That Tonks may consider herself the best duelist in the Order, but fancy leaping and knives and shiny spells weren't the be all and end all of dark wizard hunting.

The Death Eater came sprinting into view, gunning for the shortest gap in between the two buildings. With a flick of the Auror's wand, the ladderwell crumpled as the Death Eater's weight buckled the now unsupported structure.

In a creaking cacophony, the metal framework twisted its way to the ground. Moody flicked his wand again, and the steel railing wrapped itself tightly around the falling Death Eater, suspending him a foot above the concrete.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE, LADDIE," shouted Moody, pointing his wand towards his own feet. He severed the section of stairwell on which he stood, and lowered it gently to the ground.

"Moody," spat the Death Eater, struggling with his restraints.

"You're not Apner," growled Moody, dismounting his piece of metal. "Who are you?"

The Death Eater did not respond, but grit his teeth and struggled harder against the railing.

Eye solidly pointing out the back of his head, Moody advanced towards the captive, wand in one hand, walking stick in the other.

The Death Eater with Apner's face glared hatefully up at Moody. Moody whacked him with his stick.

"Augh, you old prick!"

"Why are you here? What are you looking for?"

"Fuck you!"

The Death Eater made a jerky movement and Moody quickly stepped backward. Then, without warning, he exploded into smoke.

Moody recognized _that_ move. He roared with laughter.

"Dankovich! How's your daddy holding up?"

"You're dead, old man!" came the Death Eater's voice from the rooftop above him. "We know he's here! You can't hide him forever!" A loud crack signified the end of that conversation. Moody's eyeball whirled, but the target was out of its radius.

So, the Death Eaters were hunting a person. And for some reason, they assumed they could not find that person because of Moody.

Interesting.

Dankovich: subversion-oriented Death Eater, combat was never strong suit. Death Eaters not expecting trouble, or perhaps trying to avoid attention?

Hunting someone who cannot be located. Not under protection of Ministry or Order. Suggests third party . . . or perhaps Muggle involvement? Dankovich's Juking Cloud, invented by his father, usually last resort. Popped it early, must have come ill-equipped. Death Eater resources scarce this far north? Improbable, must be another reason.

. . . Willing to bet Tonks would have just stabbed him.

Eyeball still whirling, the Auror stumped off to the nearest contact point.

* * *

Friday morning brought the Gryffindors stumbling sleepily out of their portrait hole. They'd had an especially sleepless night, for during the previous day in Herbology they had been studying the Lingering Cafoelum. It was a plant which, when disturbed, secreted a rose-scented oil that caused severe insomnia. The nonsensical nature of its supposed defense mechanism was the least of their worries, and Hermione eventually had her housemates queue in a ring in the common room, taking turns hitting each other with Scouring Charms and Sleeping Hexes until finally Seamus collapsed, snoring loudly, in a mass of bubbles.

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table silently sipping from a cup of coffee in one hand and pumpkin juice in the other, reading the Daily Prophet splayed in front of him. Today held double Potions in the morning for the Gryffindors and Slytherins, but with Snape out of the equation, the two adversaries were both on an unknown playing field. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws reported Professor Slughorn to be both fair and knowledgeable, but no one in Gryffindor outside of Ron and Ginny knew anything more about him.

At half past nine, the group of Sixth Years made the trek down to the dungeons. Halfway there, they were waylaid by the remains of one of Peeves' pranks, which had left a suit of armor, helmetless, swinging its sword blindly in the middle of the corridor. Hermione and Parvati ended up freezing it in place (_Glacius!_), allowing the students to file past.

Professor Slughorn, who was waiting outside the classroom, excused the delay with a big smile.

"Come in, come in!" he said, waving a large hand energetically at them. "Ah, you must be Harry!" He took Harry's hand and gave it a firm, indulgent shake. "A pleasure to meet you, indeed! It is true what they say – you do have your mother's eyes."

He and Harry were now the only ones standing out in the hall.

"Er, pleasure to meet you too, sir – you knew my mother?"

"I taught her," said Slughorn, still smiling, "Best in her year, though I am sorry to say that she always did prefer Charms over the art of Potions. I shall expect great things from you then; shall I, Harry?"

Harry smiled uncertainly and shook his head.

"Er, no sir, Hermione Granger is the best witch in our year."

"Miss Granger, eh? Well, let us see, shall we?" he beckoned to the door.

"Professor, before class starts – my friend Ron Weasley and I, well, we didn't know we'd be taking Potions this term and we don't have any books or ingredients –"

"Ah yes, Minerva mentioned that," said Professor Slughorn, stepping through the threshold. "Weasley, Weasley, ah yes, that must be him. Mister Weasley! Please go with Harry here and get yourselves books from the storeroom."

Harry and Ron entered the storeroom and found it much the same as it had been when Snape was the Potions master. They spotted the books underneath a thick net of spiderwebs, which Harry found rather odd, but nevertheless cleared them away with his wand. Ron took his book apprehensively and held it at arm's length, inspecting it for spiders until Harry pushed him out of the storeroom.

Back in the classroom, Slughorn was already bustling around the potions stand in front of his desk.

"These potions are the core for our curriculum this term," he said proudly. He patted each beaker or cauldron in turn as though they were his pride and joy.

"Spirited fellow," muttered Ron into Harry's ear. Harry nodded slightly.

"You will be expected to be knowledgeable of each of these, and those we will study next term, by the time your N.E.W.T. is administered. Some, you will be required to brew. These potions aren't particularly obscure, and you can find information on them easily if you care to look. Which of you fancies him– or herself a potions expert? Who wants to tell me what this one is?"

He pointed to a tiny vial on the right end of the bench, the smallest of the lot. Harry initially thought it was empty. He squinted harder. He registered that there appeared to be water in the vial by the time Slughorn pointed to Hermione.

"It's Veritaserum, a truth potion. It was specifically designed to look like water to make it seem more benign, so it is also odorless and tasteless."

"Splendid answer!" said Slughorn, turning around to write '_Veritaserum – truth potion_' on the board.

"Kind of reminds you of Altrichter?" said Harry to Ron out of the side of his mouth.

"Yeah, but . . ." said Ron hesitantly. "But it doesn't fit . . . Bill said –"

"This one, then!" said Slughorn, unlidding a simmering cauldron beside the Veritaserum. "You might have seen this one mentioned in the Daily Prophet recently – yes?"

Slughorn pointed again to Hermione, whose hand had beaten both Harry's and Ron's. Harry noted with amusement that they were the only three students who recognized the mudlike substance. He hoped fervently that he'd never have to drink it again.

"Polyjuice potion, sir," said Hermione.

"Yes, correct again!" said Slughorn happily, "and this one – my, you are very – what is it then, m'dear?"

"Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world," said Hermione in an awed voice.

Harry craned his neck and saw a pink liquid apparently swirling away by itself in the cauldron Slughorn had indicated.

"Very good, dear. Am I right in guessing that you are the lovely young witch that Harry here told me about? Hermione Granger, the best witch in the year?"

Hermione mouthed, surprised for a moment.

"Y–yes, sir," she stammered, before smiling.

"Any relation to the legendary Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No, sir, I'm Muggle-born."

"Very well!" exclaimed Slughorn, "That's three correct answers in a row, so take fifteen points for Gryffindor!"

"You told him that?" Hermione whispered to Harry, who was sitting between her and Ron.

Ron and Harry made nearly identical gestures of '_duh!', _and Ron whispered, "Well it's the truth, isn't it?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and crossed her arms but couldn't suppress a grin.

"Yes, Amortentia . . . potentially the most deadly substance in this room," continued Slughorn, dropping his voice mysteriously. "Ah, do you not believe me? Titter all you wish, but do not let your giddiness deceive you.

"Er, well," he said in an apologetic aside, "those of you in the front row, the giddiness is an effect of the fumes, so you are excused. Don't worry, it'll pass."

Harry snuck a glance at the Gryffindors in the front row, and from his angle he could barely make out a vacant expression on Neville's face. Seamus Finnegan, seated next to him, appeared flushed as well, as did the Slytherins on the other side of the room.

"But imagine a potion that can induce an obsession most controlling, most potent. Wars have been waged over matters far more trivial. However, Amortentia, like any other love potion, _will_ _not_ _create_ _love_."

Harry noticed that by now, many of their classmates were craning their necks to catch a better glimpse, or better yet, a whiff of the potion's fumes.

"Yes, very dangerous, very controversial. Banned from most international markets, illegal in several countries."

Slughorn replaced the lid on the cauldron, and there was a collective sigh from the classroom.

"Now if you'll open your books and take out parchment –"

They began taking notes in earnest when Harry found himself having difficulty concentrating. An intoxicating scent was filling his nostrils. A curious mix of cinnamon and ginger wafted pleasantly about him, and for some reason he felt light as a feather. There was also the scent of broom handle polish and . . . whatever the third smell was, he couldn't concentrate hard enough to decipher. The room was becoming awfully warm and he unthinkingly tugged at his collar.

He snapped out of the trance when he felt something very cold and very wet seeping under his arm. He jerked up straight and looked over to his left.

Ron was in the same state with a very blank look on his face and his mouth partially open. His arms had fallen to his sides on the bench, knocking over the bottle of ink that he and Harry had been sharing. Harry siphoned it up with his wand and prodded Ron in the arm. Ron sat up a little straighter and glanced briefly at Harry. Harry gestured forward towards Slughorn, but Ron simply nodded dismissively before continuing to daydream.

Harry looked over at Hermione, and sure enough she, too, was staring into space. Her face was flushed, her breaths shallow, and her left hand was gripping the bench so tightly that her knuckles were white. She appeared to be writing something on her parchment, but after a second look, Harry realized she was drawing loops and squiggles absentmindedly on the page with her quill. He prodded her too.

Hermione seemed to register his presence, but Harry wasn't sure at first. Her eyelids were half-lidded and she seemed torn between acknowledging their predicament and returning to the trance. She seemed to exert a tremendous effort and turned her head halfway towards him.

"Harry – smell . . . pumpkins? Falling leaves . . . beautiful, new parchment and –"

A fantastic gust of air startled the entire room out of its collective daze. They turned around to see Professor Slughorn standing in the open doorway, spinning his wand in a great circle.

"And _that_," he said, half amused and half apologetic, "Is why teaching Potions in a dungeon is a bad idea. No windows, very poor ventilation."

He made his way back to the front of the classroom.

"I used to teach this class up on the fifth floor, overlooking the Lake. Big windows! Nice view, fresh, clean air. Lessons on love potions, truth potions, and any other potions requiring a vapor-heavy brewing process were much easier. You learn to deal with it when you're apprenticed to a Potioneer, but for students, I'll have to work something out with Dumbledore, or February is going to be a very difficult month.

"Now, back to Amortentia. As you have just witnessed, its vapor smells unique to each person smelling it. It has the tendency to induce . . ."

A couple of hours later, the Gryffindors and Slytherins emerged from the Potions classroom weary, but happy to have the rest of the day free. Harry, Ron and Hermione waited for the crowd to walk ahead of them, and followed behind.

"I told you he'd be alright," said Hermione, once they were out of earshot from the classroom.

"That's not what Bill said," retorted Ron. "He's probably just covering up for the stuff he's seen in the pyramids. You know, just pretending to be a jolly old man, but he's hiding it all."

"Where does your imagination get off?" asked Hermione exasperatedly as they climbed the staircase.

* * *

Evening period brought Harry around the seventh floor corridor for his lesson with Dumbledore. He stopped outside in front of the large gargoyle that obscured the stairway into the Headmaster's office. Only then did he realize that he did not have the password.

"Er . . ." he stammered, looking up at the stone guardian.

"You don't have the password, do you?" it said, unnecessarily.

"No," said Harry.

"It's your lucky day, boy. Answer me these questions three, and I shall grant you entry."

Harry blinked unsurely at it but nodded.

"Al–alright? What's the first one, then?"

"What . . . is the gender of the Giant Squid?"

" . . . _What_?"

"You heard me."

"F–female," said Harry, stabbing wildly in the dark. To his surprise, the gargoyle squinted at him.

"How did you know that?"

"Is that the second question?" he asked hopefully.

". . . Yes."

"I didn't."

The gargoyle squinted harder.

". . . Well played."

It stood on its hind legs and moved to the side. The wall behind it opened up to reveal the Headmaster's staircase. Harry looked at the gargoyle in bewilderment.

"Wait – what was the third question?"

"There was none. The Headmaster instructed me to let you in whenever you got here."

"Wh– are you _serious_?"

"No, Sirius was your godfather," it quipped.

Harry stared at the gargoyle incredulously for a moment longer before shaking his head and ascending the stairs. Behind him, he could hear the gargoyle muttering to itself.

"Was that too soon? I can never tell . . ."

Dumbledore was already waiting for him at his desk, tending to Fawkes the phoenix.

"Ah, Harry! How has the first week of school been?"

"Er, very good, sir."

"Good, good. Well, let us get started right away – we have a lot of ground to cover. Have a seat, please."

Harry sat down in the plush armchair that was already positioned in front of the desk.

Dumbledore seemed to take another moment to collect his thoughts, staring up at the portraits of past Headmasters, and the various shelves that lined the upper reaches of the office. After steadying himself, he sat down in the chair opposite Harry, and leaned forward, looking into Harry's eyes with a penetrating gaze.

"You have studied here for five years now, Harry. You have passed the first major milestone in magical education: the O.W.L.s. In five long years, while transfiguring snuffboxes, gazing into teacups – or perhaps, while toying with potions that, with the slightest slip of the hand, might become poisons . . . Have you ever once wondered to yourself: _what is magic?_"

Harry thought for a moment before realizing that . . . he hadn't.

"No, sir."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Do you know what it is?"

"No, sir?"

"Good. Neither do I," said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair.

Harry nodded, a little taken aback.

"Neither did Merlin, nor did Circe, or Grunnion, or Ravenclaw, or even Ptolemy. More importantly, Morgana, Herpo the Foul, Slytherin, Grindelwald – not even Tom Riddle could answer the question, _what is magic_?

"These, the most powerful practitioners of the Dark Arts, are by their nature unbounded by orthodox morals in their methods of study. Their delving in the Dark Arts, while horrific and unjustified, has furthered our collective knowledge of magic far more than conventional means – and yet they still have not been able to answer exactly what it is that gives us our ability to use magic to manipulate the world around us.

"Maybe, some scholars think, the answer can be found in analyzing our differences with Muggles. What separates us from the vast majority of humans in the world? For one thing, we carry magical instruments that are found nowhere in the Muggle world. Surely our wands have something to do with it, do they not?"

Harry nodded his head for Dumbledore's benefit.

"Most of our spells require a verbal incantation as well as some form of wand movement – the somatic component, as it is called. We magical folk use our wands to focus and supplement our own internal magical power – with the incantation and wand movement, the wand can read what we intend, and directs magical energy as necessary.

"Yet, magic does not require a wand. I assume you remember for your youth, simple happenings that you could not explain, and only later learned to be magical in nature?"

"Yes, sir," replied Harry. "When I was in primary school, Aunt Petunia would cut my hair really short, and I'd be afraid to go to school the next day, but it'd have grown back by morning. When I was being chased by my cousin's friends, I'd be able to get away from them in ways that made no sense. And one time, when I got angry at Dudley, I trapped him behind some glass."

"So you are obviously quite aware then, that wands are not whole bag of tricks," said Dumbledore.

Harry nodded.

"Some of the rare researchers who work closely with Muggles have also theorized that it is simply a genetic trait in some humans, that some of us are just born with the ability to control magic. I believe this is the closest to the truth that we have so far come.

"If magic were an inherent genetic trait, it would explain why wizarding families are more likely to have adept magical children, as well as why inbreeding within Pureblood families will sometimes produce Squibs, or gradually deteriorating magical ability over many generations.

"Then, on the off chance of random mutation, a child born to a Muggle family will be magically adept.

"Though," said Dumbledore sadly, "truth be told, not many witches or wizards find Muggles particularly worthy of professional study. Our friend Arthur Weasley, I am afraid, is of a unique breed. But, I digress." At this point, Dumbledore took his wand out of his sleeve and placed it on the desk between them.

"I chose to begin our discussion using this topic, because I feel that you should have some background in order for me to introduce you to our lessons. I trust you recall the prophecy?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry.

"I want you to pretend for a moment that you had never heard it. Better, pretend for a moment that it had never been made. Now, let us go over the events of the past few years.

"In your first year, you and your friends saved the Sorcerer's Stone from the combined clutches of Quirinus Quirrell and Voldemort. A feat that impressed me, even though you believe it to be a product of luck rather than skill."

Harry, who had opened his mouth to argue exactly this point, nodded his head and shut his mouth again.

"While it may have been more luck and circumstance, it certainly showed that you and your friends have mettle.

"The same can be said for your second year, when you faced off against the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Luck and circumstance may have had a hand in your accomplishment, but you once again displayed a rare gift of grit that allowed you to face what no other student has in many years.

"Your third year, however, is more important in terms of this lesson. More specifically, your first corporeal Patronus."

"A lot of things seem to come down to that," mused Harry, "My Patronus, as though it were this big deal –"

"Which it is," countered Dumbledore. "What is involved in the casting of a Patronus, Harry?"

"Er, well, you need to focus on something really happy and concentrate really, really hard – though I guess it doesn't have to be happy, necessarily. I casted it last year by just thinking about Ron and Hermione, so I guess it just needs really, really strong . . . positive emotions?"

"Exactly, exactly," said Dumbledore approvingly. "We will return to the mechanics of the spell later. What we take away from this is that you are indeed a powerful wizard, Harry."

He blinked.

"I don't follow, sir," he said. "How does that work?"

"At the age of thirteen, you had mastered a spell that many adult witches and wizards still cannot perform. If that is not explanation enough for you, it goes deeper. The Patronus requires a good deal of willpower to maintain its shape and potency, and your will is what dictates the flow of your magic.

"For example, take your duel with Voldemort in your fourth year," began Dumbledore, but Harry cut him off.

"But Professor, the only reason I . . . _survived_ . . . is because our wands locked –"

"Which brings us to the point I wish to discuss," said Dumbledore. "The Priori Incantatem effect, in which one wand will force the other to regurgitate its previously casted spells. Your wand shares a connection with Voldemort's in that because the two wands are twins, when they are pitted against one another, they equal each other in strength, regardless of their power when compared to other wands. Therefore, the only reason you are sitting before me is because you, through sheer determination, forced the two wands to act in the manner that they did. You defeated Voldemort solidly in a contest of wills. Regardless of the extenuating circumstances surrounding your situation at the time, this strongly suggests –- rather, this is overwhelming evidence that you are in fact a powerful wizard by your own ability, Harry."

They sat quietly for a minute while Harry allowed this to sink in. Sure it made sense when Dumbledore said it like that, but he'd never felt particularly powerful himself. And that's what mattered, didn't it? Even if Dumbledore said so, what did it matter, if he could not utilize this so-called advantage in the first place?

"I see that you are not completely convinced," said Dumbledore. "But that is to be expected, and it shall have to do for now – the rest shall come in time.

"For now, let us refresh our minds by attacking the problem from a different angle. Think back to the first year you spent here learning to control magic. How was it different, compared to the magic you had done before?"

"Well," said Harry, not seeing where this was going, "I didn't even know I'd done magic before . . ."

"Assuming you did know," amended Dumbledore.

"Right, well, said Harry, furrowing his brow in thought. "I guess it was easier, I mean, with my wand, there's some kind of obvious way to make magic happen. Before, I'd have to be really afraid or really angry, and I didn't even know what would happen in the first place."

"Yes," said Dumbledore, patting his own wand briefly, which still lay on the desk between them. "Have you ever wondered exactly, 'what is a wand?', Harry? What is it that makes a wand so central in our conventional magic? Why is it that, even after our admittedly crude display of magical talents as young children, we become comparatively proficient at spellwork within a few short weeks of acquiring our first wand?"

"Er, I'd always just assumed by . . . magic, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"That is, in fact, closer to the truth than you intended," he said. "To begin with, how is a wand constructed?"

"Well," said Harry, taking a breath, "you take some kind of magical animal bits like unicorn hair and you stick them in a – . . . a stick."

"That is the general idea, yes," said Dumbledore. "You know from experience how clumsy we humans tend to be with magic at a young age. The fact is, if we were to have a magical child grow up learning to use magic on his own, it is likely he would probably never progress further than a first year student here at Hogwarts, and that is if he does not end up inadvertently killing himself with his clumsy tinkerings.

"However, give him a wand to aid him in focusing his magic, and suddenly the learning curve is drastically reduced. With a mere fraction of the effort, he is able to change the world around him. He can teach others magic, for he has become a master of magic himself. Perhaps most importantly, he can _record_ spells to pass down to the next generation. He can build a community – our community – centered around the use of magic.

"All of this is possible because with a wand, the mechanics of magic become trivial. Whereas before, the pre-wand wizard would have to exert massive amounts of willpower or strong bursts of emotion to observe any magical effect, the wand directs the flow of magical energy for him. It also augments his power, to the point where you once had a few sparks, you instead have _Incendio_."

"So basically," said Harry, "without wands, we're the magical equivalent of cavemen."

"Essentially, yes. Now, as we have stated, a wand is composed of a core donated by a magical beast, and an outer shell of wood. Both of these elements work together to produce the magic-focusing effect of a wand. I suggest you consult Mr. Ollivander the next time you happen to be in Diagon Alley if you wish to learn more of their construction, for I was never an expert in their manufacture.

"However, the basics are there for the benefit of our discussion. You remember that your wand's core comes from Fawkes?"

Upon hearing his name, the phoenix gave a muffled squawk.

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore reached over and stroked the bird's neck.

"When a token from a magical beast is placed in a wand, the wand will maintain a tenuous link to its donor. This is true even for dragons, which must be slain to retrieve the coveted heartstrings – the wand will at times react to the creature's remains. While the bond is not potent enough to be of any utility and oftentimes is too weak to even notice, it indicates something much more important in the wand's function.

"Inside a wand, the magical token retains enough essence from its donor to allow the wizard using it to control magic, simply by telling the wand what he wants it to do. The wand listens to the verbal component and reads the somatic component of a spell, and acts as a mediator between wizard and magic."

"Wait, so, we aren't really doing magic, we're just telling the wand to do magic?" asked Harry.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, "the wand draws the majority of the magical energy for a spell directly from your power, which is why you sometimes feel tired after a full day of, say, Charms and Transfiguration."

"Funny," said Harry, "I always assumed it was because I'd just had a full day of Charms and Transfiguration."

Amusement filled Dumbledore's face, and he took his wand from the desk.

"You will likely hear some people say that some wands are more powerful than others, but this can be misleading. It is more correct to say that the properties of a wand will differ based on its donor, as well as the wood from which it was constructed.

"Some wands will be able to draw power from the wizard at a faster rate. Others will be able to lend more of their own inherent magical powers to their user during spells. Some wands will tend to be more forgiving of a wizard's mistakes during spellcasting, which is why you will hear that one wand will be better for Transfiguration, or for Charms.

"And that is the introduction to today's lesson," said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair.

"Sorry, sir, but – the introduction?" asked Harry in disbelief. He felt like Dumbledore had been talking for forever.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "but it will be a short one, I believe.

"Let us continue with a little history. We have established that the wand has given rise to the magical community as it is. It simplifies magic for us – breaks it down into steps we can master.

"In the early days of the magical community here in the British Isles, the sorceress Morgana found that she had gradually adapted the ability to control magic freely without the aid of her wand. You may already know of her reputation from collecting Chocolate Frog cards."

"She was my first card, sir," supplied Harry. "She was an enemy of Merlin."

"For a time, yes, she was. She was also his pupil. As for her magic, she was not the first, certainly, but hers was the first written record of a witch casting aside her wand and unlocking the powers that lay deep inside her mind.

"However, as she had been considered to be one of the most dangerous dark witches of her time, the use of wandless magic has been closely associated with the Dark Arts ever since. Even after her redemption, she and her particular brand of sorcery were ostracized from the mainstream society. While not many facts are known of her life, her reputation persisted.

"Behind the veil of reprehension lies a very important episode in our magical evolution. Morgana used the wand as a crutch to help her survive long enough in the magical world to develop her own magical powers. When she was ready to master the powers that lay within her, she leapt out of the nest, and found she had strength enough to fly."

"Centuries later, in the early days of Hogwarts, a young witch wrote a notebook – _that_ notebook," said Dumbledore, pointing to a high shelf, atop which sat a tattered book inside a glass case.

"Inside it are pages and pages of notes that she wrote while pursuing what she referred to as '_sorcery of the highest order.'_ It turns out that she had been trying to piece together the witch that Morgana had been at the height of her power.

"She made considerable progress, from what has been deciphered in the journal, but at some point the notes simply end. Either she left Hogwarts, or her attempts were discovered and she was cast out as a dark witch, or she simply died trying. Neither is certain, for this happened during the time of the Founders of Hogwarts, and very few records exist of that entire eon in our history. The ghosts will not speak of it. Not even the Sorting Hat's memory has survived intact – it has no recollection of such an event.

"As the years came and went, more attempts were made, usually to the detriment of those witches and wizards. If they did not end up dying in the process, they were usually shunned out of fear, or hunted as practitioners of the Dark Arts. To be fair, a great deal of them _were_ dark witches or wizards, but fear can be quite polarizing."

"Professor," Harry interjected, "what did they do to . . . die trying? What exactly is dangerous about it? I mean, lots of us did it as kids, and I've seen adults sometimes do things without a wand, like light a burner, or put out candles, or stuff like that."

"Those are but mere cantrips in the wider world of magic," said Dumbledore. "One does not need too much understanding of his own inner magic to make a spark or snuff out a small flame with a breeze. It will simply come passively through your natural affinity for magic. Short bursts of uncontrolled magic in children are hardly complicated, and usually manifest themselves in the most straightforward means to minimize an impending threat. Very little risk is involved until one actually tries to control magic consciously by themselves, but we will come to that later. For now, let us proceed with the lesson.

"In the late nineteenth century, there were two young headstrong lads living in Britain, one of them freshly graduated from Hogwarts who had also dabbled in all sorts of magic and happened to come across a strange journal in their travels. It was old, crumbling, almost falling apart, but held the promise of unlocking their true potential as wizards.

"The Hogwarts graduate was named Albus Dumbledore. The other was his friend, Gellert Grindelwald."

Harry, who had been initially expecting more goblin rebellions from this history lesson, was paying rapt attention to Dumbledore's story now. He'd never heard Dumbledore speak of his own past, and was not about to ruin his chance.

"We set about learning everything we could from the faded ink," he continued. "Gellert was always more powerful than I had ever been, and he picked up on it much more quickly. Shortly afterward, we had a falling-out, and a duel ensued. Gellert won, of course, and departed. On that day I suffered a great personal tragedy, and I swore off the route of wandless sorcery, and endeavored for years to regain my abilities with a wand.

"When we met again in our duel in 1945, I was able to defeat Gellert, but barely. He was still stronger than I had ever been, and ever would be, and only cleverness and the time I had spent relearning the wand saved me.

"Not long afterward came the rise of the latest notable practitioner of the Dark Arts - Tom Riddle. Now, Tom was a brilliant young man, as I remember him. As his magical abilities increased, so did his arrogance. When he first discovered the journal in my office, I warned him off the path, but he did not listen."

"But sir," Harry interrupted, "Voldemort uses a wand. You made it sound like you had to pick one or the other."

"Tom disappeared after his graduation from Hogwarts, and when he returned, he came to my office seeking a teaching position at Hogwarts, in Defense Against the Dark Arts. With him, he had his wand."

Harry noticed that Dumbledore had skirted the wand-or-no-wand issue, but let it slide for now.

"I refused, knowing of what he thought were his secret forays into the Dark Arts. I thought it curious that he had chosen the wand, when, with his natural talent for magic combined with his strong willpower, he could easily have wielded raw power beyond imagination, and I prodded him in an effort to know what he knew.

"I learned nothing, unfortunately. Tom left that day after placing a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, and no professor has since held the office for more than two consecutive years.

"I suspect that during the time of his disappearance, he learned of something or some things that were worth being constrained by a wand. Tom was, as I have said before, a brilliant student, and he would not have thrown away such an advantage lightly. The fact remains, however, that even if his ability to channel magic is mildly rate-limited by his wand, he is still the most powerful dark wizard of this age."

Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk and looked Harry directly in the eye. Harry could not read the expression on his face, but he had never been good at it in the first place.

"When the prophecy was made, I was unsure of what to expect. Though all signs were that Voldemort was vanquished for good, I suspected otherwise. Because of the need to protect you from the retribution of his followers, I made the decision to make the best of your mother's Blood Magic protection, and delivered you to your aunt and uncle. Your aunt took you in, sealing the pact, as we discussed at the end of last year.

"I deduced quickly that your life under their care would be difficult. I often questioned my decision, and wondered if I should not have removed you from that situation sooner. However, I came to realize that any protection I could offer you would not have been sufficient.

"By emerging from your childhood intact and not nearly as bitter as you should have been, you have shown admirable strength of will in the face of continuous adversity. Throughout the years, you have demonstrated this again and again, and I now realize the truth of the prophecy.

"I had originally taken the prophecy with a generous helping of salt, but regardless of whether it had been prophesized in the first place, I have come to believe that you are, in fact, our best chance. Perhaps our only chance. I believe, Harry, that you will prevail. I have seen your strength, and the bonds you share with your allies.

"I admitted to you before that I have failed you, Harry. I ask that you allow me to redeem myself now, by passing on my knowledge to you. I do believe that you will win this war, but I also believe that you require the proper tools, and I intend to give you every advantage I can possibly bestow.

"I can teach you to look inside yourself, and bring forth the true power that lies in your veins. I can teach you to take the reins of your own power and unleash such things that are beyond imagining."

There was silence for a moment before Harry spoke.

"You want – _me_ –" he pointed to himself unnecessarily, "to learn wandless magic?"

Dumbledore looked almost impatient for a moment – almost.

"I do not intend to teach you the gimmicks used by showoffs who believe that conjuring flames from their hands is nothing but an amusing bar trick. I intend to teach you to control magic at its very foundations, to wield the same power Morgana held at her beck and call."

"But sir – why me? Hermione –"

"Is a strong willed witch as well, and very skilled with a wand," said Dumbledore. "So skilled, in fact, that she was able to assist me in warding her parents' house this past summer. I have not seen wand work of that caliber since my second duel with Tom Riddle during the first war. She is already one of the cleverest witches I have ever had the pleasure to witness, and I have no doubt that in time, she will surpass my abilities in the art of the wand.

"I do not deny that she would most likely excel in these lessons had I chosen to teach her, but I believe her full potential lies in her ability to master centuries' worth of wandlore in one lifetime."

They sat for a moment longer. Harry, who thought he'd already made up his mind before coming to this lesson, was now going over everything Dumbledore had laid out in front of him. The prophecy was a given. He'd need every advantage in the fight against Voldemort. Dumbledore thought this would give him a fighting chance. It was considered closely associated with the Dark Arts, but Dumbledore thought otherwise. Voldemort chose a different path. And apparently, there was some form of danger involved, on which Dumbledore still hadn't elaborated.

To stall for time, he decided to ask questions.

"Why is it that it has to be one way or the other?" he asked, "Wand or no wand, I mean. What did you mean when you said you had to relearn it?"

Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair.

"Let us try a demonstration. Remus told me of your rescue attempt," he said, staring at Harry intently. "He said you managed to Apparate past the wards, which by definition rules it out as Apparition. What exactly did you do?"

"Er – well, I got really angry, then I felt something funny, and I kept trying to focus until something clicked, and I told it I wanted to go to Luna," said Harry. "And I appeared in the air beside her house, outside a window, so I guess it took me to where she was, but not exactly where she was."

Dumbledore was still staring at him.

"Try to do that again, Harry, only this time, listen to my voice.

"The sky is dark. You are advancing along a dark country road, with your friends Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger . . ."

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry felt himself drawn into his voice. Dumbledore was speaking very quietly, and his voice grew deeper and deeper until it faded away, and Harry found himself leading Hermione and Ron as they advanced silently along a cobbled path. It led to what appeared to be a shed with a thatched roof and a candle light in the window. They halted their advance momentarily, but heard nothing.

Harry waved his hand over his shoulder for Ron to advance and take the point position. Ron did so, with his wand out. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, with a look of dawning horror on his face. Harry looked, and saw that the candle light in the window had turned green.

The ground at Ron's feet began to glow red, and in a split second, massive thorny branches erupted out of the earth and held him fast. Hermione gasped and whipped her wand towards Ron to free him, but she was tackled from behind by a masked and hooded figure.

Harry began to run towards her, but felt the wind leave his lungs as he ran into a second Death Eater's fist, and he tumbled backwards onto the ground. He tried to cast a spell to make the Death Eater let go . . . but wait – where was his wand?

The next moment, he was being held fast, and suddenly Dementors spiraled out of the sky, heading straight towards –

"HERMIONE –"

Suddenly, he was back in Dumbledore's office, with the headmaster looking him straight in the eye. Furthermore, his chair was on fire.

Harry leapt out of his chair, wand clattering to the floor, and patted out the flames with his sleeve before rounding on the old wizard.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?"

"An immersive training method that gradually becomes unnecessary," said Dumbledore. "I needed to you to bring out your unconscious control of magic, and in the early stages of wandless sorcery, emotions are the gateway used to tap into your latent ability. As you progress, it becomes less emotion-based and more controllable by force of will.

"However, to answer your previous question, pick up your wand and cast a spell."

Still glaring furiously at Dumbledore, Harry snatched up his wand from the floor.

"_Engorgio_," he incanted, pointing it at a small snowglobe that sat on the corner of Dumbledore's desk.

However, the sphere did not grow. Nor did it shrink. It simply sat there, with the snow swirling around peacefully. He tried again.

"_Engorgio!_"

Reluctantly, it seemed, the sphere began to increase in size. However, it only did so on one side, leaving it a lopsided egg shape by the time the spell had finished.

"Different wands will produce different reactions," said Dumbledore, looking at the globe thoughtfully, "but the general idea is the same. The wand becomes, for lack of a better word, uneasy. This explanation relies heavily upon personifying the wand, but essentially it senses that its bond with its master has somehow been perturbed. Regaining the wand's trust requires some urging, as you have just witnessed.

"The effect can be observed simply by using another wizard's wand. With effort, you should be able to use another's wand in an emergency, but usually with less than satisfactory results, due to the fact that the wand is not bonded to you. The performance dropoff increases with the complexity of the spell.

"When you return to your own wand, the repercussions for such an act are very small and usually go unnoticed."

"So," said Harry, digesting this idea, "your wand will be jealous of another wand, but feel betrayed if you decide not to use a wand at all?"

"Perhaps we have taken this personification a bit too far," said Dumbledore, sighing and massaging his temples. "Wands do not experience emotions, nor are they sentient. Wandlore is a complex science, and not even I have read all the theories under the sun. I decided to use the personification approach because it is a convenient way to describe the wand's behavior, even though it brings the danger of endless debates about spirituality and religion."

"Well, okay," said Harry, "So the point is that the wand doesn't like it."

"We'll go with that," said Dumbledore.

"And it gets back at you by not working properly?"

"It varies between wands," said Dumbledore. "Some, like yours, will display passive-aggressive behavior and must be coaxed into working order. Sometimes, the consequences can be a little more . . . severe."

At this, Dumbledore raised his bandaged and bloody hand into view. Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"That's . . . the danger you mentioned, sir?" he said after a moment.

"Among others," said Dumbledore, tucking his hand back into his sleeve. "As I mentioned before, developing the ability requires the use of emotions as a gateway, and human emotions can be quite unstable. Especially, if you'll forgive me for saying it, for individuals in your age group –"

Harry was about to protest, but remembered vividly his outburst at the end of the previous year. He decided to swallow it.

"But Harry, the hour now grows late. I have now laid the pieces on the table for your consideration. Do you wish to accept the training I offer?"

"I thought I already had, sir?" said Harry.

"It would be unfair of me to take it as your word, when I had not told you exactly what constituted these lessons," said Dumbledore, folding his hands. "It will likely be a difficult path to tread."

Harry sat in his chair, thinking, reviewing the night's conversation in his head.

"If you need more time to decide, you may say so," prompted Dumbledore.

"This will make me stronger?" asked Harry.

"Yes and no," said Dumbledore. "You are already strong, Harry. This will allow you to make the most of that strength."

"But, you believe this will help fight Voldemort."

"A tool," clarified Dumbledore, "not assured victory. But the best I can possibly give you."

A fighting chance, in other words, thought Harry. A chance to satisfy the prophecy in some way other than dying immediately by Voldemort's hand.

There was danger involved, Dumbledore admitted that. Tonks had warned him against the lessons, too, but she also hadn't wanted to discount them entirely.

But maybe, maybe if he were stronger, he would be able to do something – anything – more in the fight against Voldemort. Wouldn't that be worth the risk?

'_Some good people will die, and some of the gentlest people you know will have blood stained on their hands before this is through . . .'_

. . . But if he were stronger, maybe he could keep Ron and Luna safe from the clutches of whatever fate awaited them. Maybe Hermione could be spared from whatever hellish butchery he had seen when the Dementor brought him to the edge of the great abyss.

He set his jaw.

"When is the next lesson, Professor?"

* * *

Next chapter: happy birthday to you, happy birthday to youuu . . .

**About this story: **_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ and its sequel take place after _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. They are meant to be read in place of _Half-Blood Prince_ and _Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . how did you even _get _this far anyway? Couldn't you just stop reading? Why are you even paying attention to this note? I promise you won't find something MORE to flame AFTER the actual chapter is already over._

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts, with sixteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

Thanks for reading!


	11. Ch11: Why We Fight

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _Some (tiny bits of) material also borrowed from: d20 system and Dragon Age.

**Author's Note (26 March 2011): **After some calculations, we figured out that we screwed up the dates. The _Dictatus_ quote was actually supposed to be from 1120 AD, and at this time it would have been written in Old English, not Middle English. Next chapter is on the way very soon.

**Author's Note (22 February 2011):** Honestly, this chapter was only delayed for so long because the primary author has trouble writing Dobby's dialogue . . .

Also, a good deal of time was spent remaking the PDF-book-form of this story in LaTeX, because it was good practice. Not that you'd be able to tell unless you read the edition notice, because it looks essentially identical to the original method of printing the Word document to a PDF.

Needless to say, the PDF form of this story is, again, available through the author profile. The EPUB version hasn't been updated to include this chapter, but will be later this week.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Eleven v2

"Why We Fight"

26 March 2011

FanFictionDotNet Edit

Original Version: 22 February 2011

"_The bond between wand and master is a pact sealed in Blood . . ."_

– from a Hogwarts Library _Dictatus Artificum_, c. 1120 AD.

"You _know_ the Ministry won't take kindly to this, Professor. In fact, they'd be even more likely to chuck you both in Azkaban, or even Nurmengard, than they were _last_ year."

"I am well aware of the Ministry's stance on the matter."

"Even if we win, there's no guarantee –"

"Ah, but that presumes that we do win."

The Auror, in what seemed to be an incredible exercise of restraint, covered her face with her palm.

"Professor, it doesn't help that you KNOW that this is how Morgana . . . why do you even keep those records lying around?"

"My dear Nymphadora," the wizened Headmaster replied, "I do not keep them 'lying around'. The nature of the training regimen should remain safe from discovery until it is already well under full swing."

Tonks, still cringing from the use of her name, snorted in disbelief. She looked pleadingly to the only other person in the room.

"Professor McGonagall, you aren't _okay_ with this, are you?"

"Of course not!" said the elderly witch. "But Albus is right, undoubtedly . . . Without the best tools we can afford, Potter will not stand a chance against the forces mustered against him. Something is . . . _different_ . . . from the last time."

"Even if it is borderline Dark Magic?"

"It is only as Dark as you or me," said Dumbledore.

"Yes, but you _know_ that philosophical grey areas don't hold much water with the Ministry," said Tonks. "Perception is what matters, and the perception of wandless magic hasn't changed one bit since Grindelwald destroyed half of Europe."

"We're aware of that, Miss Tonks," said McGonagall patiently.

"Nng," Tonks moaned into her palm. "If I were on duty, I'd be obliged to arrest both of you."

"I'd like to see you try, dearie," said McGonagall, playing along. "You may be talented at prancing about in the rambunctious style of the Aurors, but you forget who educated you in the art of Transfiguration."

Noting the determined looks on both Professors' faces, Tonks sighed resignedly.

"Well, it's your call anyway. Why did you need to tell me?"

"You and Alastor are our liaisons within the Ministry," said Dumbledore, "and Kingsley has enough to go on with at the moment. We need you to help us keep the nature of Harry's lessons under the sneakoscope."

"So Moody's fine with it?" asked Tonks.

"Actually, he seemed positively ecstatic," said McGonagall sardonically. "I haven't seen Alastor ever approve as much of anything since the time when Salriich Willems was accidentally killed in-transit to Azkaban."

"Urgh," said Tonks, hand in her face once more. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel relieved or terrified. Alright, I'll see what I can do. But the other Aurors, the ones stationed at Hogsmeade – I'm on friendly terms with Proudfoot, but he's a sergeant, _and_ my NCOIC. If any of them find out . . ."

"We will be cautious," said Dumbledore comfortingly. "If we receive Harry's consent, we shall begin the lessons as soon as the term begins. With care and responsible practice, Harry's abilities will remain hidden until they mature."

"And if they don't?" asked Tonks, looking warily at Dumbledore.

"No well-calculated risk is without its contingency plan."

* * *

"Bloody hell –"

"I think that's enough for tonight, Harry," sad Dumbledore patiently.

Panting heavily, Harry hastily snuffed out the flames that were happily consuming his sleeve. He was drenched in sweat.

"But sir," he said, "I haven't made any progress . . ."

"Remember the learning curve, Harry," said Dumbledore.

Harry steadied himself. Sighing, he sat back down in the chair.

"This time –" he swallowed hard. "It – Ron was . . ."

Dumbledore gazed at him in silence for a minute.

"I am sorry, Harry," he said. "If I could control what the visions showed you –"

Harry shook his head violently to rid his mind of the image of a beaten and bleeding Ron with a wand to the back of his head.

"Perhaps we should take a break from these lessons next week," said Dumbledore.

"No, sir," said Harry hurriedly, "It's working, isn't it? I just need more practice –"

Dumbledore regarded him another moment. He closed the journal that they had been using throughout the lesson and rested his good hand on its cover.

The unknown witch's journal had detailed the sequence of visions and trances that the witch had followed during her research. Harry's own visions had been completely different from hers, but were certainly up to par in their gruesomeness.

The journal bore the image of a weeping eye that appeared to have been scratched into its cover with a knife point. Harry glared at the eye. It glared back. Harry looked back up at Dumbledore.

"How can I do anything productive, if all I can do is set myself on fire?" he continued. "I mean, I guess it'd help a little bit if the Death Eaters tried to kidnap me, but I'd rather be able to do something more about it."

"And what does Miss Granger think about your ability to burst into flames?"

Harry felt the color drain from his face. He swallowed.

"You did not tell them?" Dumbledore looked at him disapprovingly.

"Not yet, sir," he admitted.

"When I said that we must keep these lessons discreet, I did not mean you should keep your _friends_ in the dark, Harry. Our concern lies with the Ministry's reaction."

"I know, sir," said Harry. "But, even though Ron wouldn't outright tell a soul if I made him swear to it, and he's good at keeping a secret, he's not good at hiding the _fact_ that he knows a secret. Ginny would probably figure it out, if not Hermione or Luna before that.

"Hermione already worries enough about me. When I did . . . whatever I did to save Luna, she flew off the handle. If she knew I just spent two hours watching her and Ron and other people die over and over . . ."

"She would be right to worry," said Dumbledore. "It's not something you can simply brush aside, Harry. Mental trauma is not the best burden for one person to undertake alone."

"I . . . I know," he said, looking down. "I'll tell them eventually, sir."

"Not for my sake, Harry, but your own," said Dumbledore. "Though truthfully, in the end, it is your own judgment that matters, and not my counsel. You know your friends far better than I do."

"Sir, my wand . . . well, I've been having trouble with Transfiguration this week. Though, I have Transfiguration before Charms on both days, so I had it working again by the time I saw Professor Flitwick."

"Minerva knows," said Dumbledore, "and she will tend to be more forgiving regarding your performance in class. It is still necessary for you to attend classes, of course, Harry."

"Yes, sir," he said.

Several minutes later, Harry stepped out into the corridor and took a long, slow breath. It was only the second lesson so far, and he still felt as completely shaken by the visions as he had been last week. Dumbledore's trances, which were presumably the same that Morgana had used on herself . . . well, he couldn't imagine what kind of person would be able to repeatedly self-inflict those kinds of visions. They were so . . .

Morbid.

He'd retched for at least two minutes after one particular trance halfway through the lesson had placed him in a shackled chair, forced to watch as a giant version of Nagini, Voldemort's snake familiar, consumed a helpless Ginny Weasley . . . did the human body even _have_ that much blood?

He had awoken out of _that_ trance to find that he had unconsciously blasted a good chunk of Dumbledore's desk to splinters – which, of course, were on fire.

He'd been furious with Dumbledore last week, after the first trance in which Hermione had almost been devoured by Dementors, but they had only gotten worse – the first one had paled in comparison to what followed. Now, stepping out of the Headmaster's office, he felt like he was seeing the real world for the first time. It felt so surreal – had he only been seeing these gruesome, blood-drenched images for two hours?

Dumbledore said that the need for this emotion-based activation was only temporary, so why on earth were the visions getting more and more horrible?

At least it was working, kind of. Every time, the visions had triggered a raw anger, deeper than he had ever felt before, which he was able to bring forth to his fingertips. Unfortunately, most of the time it had also resulted in setting something – usually his robes – on fire.

He tried to imagine telling Ron and Hermione the truth.

'_Hey Ron, I just thought you'd like to know, I saw a vision of Ginny impaled on a fang today. It was kind of like when you break the tip on your quill, but instead your quill is filled with blood, and it got _everywhere_ . . ._'

'_Please don't worry, Hermione. I'm not going to go insane just because I've just spent an hour or two seeing you dying in new, inventive ways every few minutes.'_

'_I promise, just because Grindelwald led a war across the world doesn't mean that I'm going to follow in his footsteps.'_

. . . What, too flippant?

It didn't help that the trance spell was initiated by the caster, but the _visions_ were perpetuated by the_ subject_. The spell's mechanics were dutifully recorded in the old unknown witch's journal that Dumbledore had pulled down from its high shelf. She'd tried many, many things over the course of a decade, but anger had produced the only meaningful results. Fear was a distant second, and only produced the same response that it did in small children – a short burst of uncontrolled, unpredictable magic.

How could he explain _that_ one? Why was his mind even capable of such visions?

When he returned the first night, he'd told Ron and Hermione all he had learned about history, except for the wandless bit, and naturally he had omitted the entire trance mess.

Ron had instantly formed five different theories about why Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry about Grindelwald (_'maybe he wants to teach you how to duel like he did back in 1945 – have you _seen_ the pictures?'_).

Hermione had had her own responses to Ron's ideas ('_honestly Ron, do you actually _read_ those books, or just watch the duels?'_), but refused to speculate further until Harry brought back more information.

Frustrated, he clawed at his brain. Why was he missing so much knowledge? He'd been studying magic for five years now. Surely he could display at least a modicum of familiarity with his own profession. What was to be done? What would Hermione do?

. . . Library, no doubt. What a stupid question.

He pivoted on the spot and headed down a different hallway.

In but a few minutes, he entered the library under the suspicious scrutiny of Madam Pince, who, Harry deduced, must have been intending to close the library soon. It was only the second week of classes after all, and as far as he could tell, he was the only person in the library besides a Hufflepuff seventh year who was putting her books away.

He crossed the reading area and immediately felt rather silly, for he hadn't actually thought about what he needed to get. Quickly perusing the shelves, he began mentally pointing to books at random and glanced over the spines.

He'd chosen _The Semi-Authoritative Discourse on Wand Mechanics_ and _Spellshot_ by the time he reached the beginning of the Restricted Section. He turned back to head out towards Madam Pince's desk when one of the book spines caught his attention.

He could have sworn he was just going crazy and the mental trauma from the visions was just starting to catch up with him, but he took a closer look anyway.

One of the Restricted books on a high shelf bore a symbol on its spine. It was a gold-embossed weeping eye – the very same he'd seen on the journal in Dumbledore's office. Sure it was restricted, but there had to be a way to get it. After all, isn't that what he'd learned in his five years at Hogwarts? Either that or something to do with magic and wand-waving.

At that moment, he heard footsteps approaching and he circled around the nearest shelf. He was about to give up when another set of footsteps came padding in from the direction of the lobby.

"Master Librarian?" came a voice from the reading area that Harry recognized as Miss Altrichter.

"Yes?" called Madam Pince from the aisle on the other side of Harry's shelf.

"Ah, good evening Master Librarian," said Altrichter, now also on the other side of the shelf.

"Please, Sergeant," said Madam Pince. "I'm retired. It's just 'Madam' now."

"Yes ma'am," said Altrichter. Harry, squinting between the books, saw her bow slightly to the old librarian.

"What can I do for you, Sergeant?" asked the librarian. Harry was surprised to note warmth in Madam Pince's usually icy voice.

"I've brought the list of books we're going to be using for the Accelerated Defense lessons," said Altrichter, handing her a piece of parchment. "We were hoping you'd be able to reserve any copies of these books for students in the class, if you have them?"

After a moment, Madam Pince replied.

"Yes, yes, we have all of these. Very well, it shall be done. If that is all, Miss Altrichter, I will be closing the library shortly. I just have to find Potter and then tidy up the front desk. Will you need anything else?"

"Oh, no," said the Auror. "Thank you. Why don't you let me find Potter for you? I'll be right out with him, ma'am."

"Very well, Sergeant, thank you," said Madam Pince. Harry watched he walk away from behind his shelf. Altrichter moved in the opposite direction, and Harry followed her.

"Miss Altrichter?" he called out when he reached the end of the row.

"Mister Potter?" she mimicked, stepping out from behind the shelf. "Nice robes. Are you doing well?"

Harry looked down and saw that his robes bore rather obvious chars and burns from his lesson.

"Er – I was practicing some spells," he replied. "But, uh, yes. And yourself?"

"Why yes," she said, giving him a characteristic smile. "Will you and your friends be joining us the week after next for our Accelerated Defense lessons?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry. "We're looking forward to it."

"Outstanding," she said, positively beaming. "But I'm afraid the Master Librarian wants to close soon."

"I know, ma'am," said Harry. "But I was wondering, there's this book I was hoping to get to help me with some research. The thing is, it's in the Restricted Section and we kind of need a note from a professor –"

"Oh? And which book would this be?" asked Altrichter, raising an eyebrow.

Harry pointed to the book, which sat out of reach on its high shelf just inside the Restricted Section.

Altrichter flicked it down from the shelf with her wand and caught it deftly in her other hand. On the cover, it bore another small weeping eye, and the letters DICTATVS ARTIFICVM were embossed on the front in gold.

"Fancy," the Auror remarked. "I've heard of these things. Some kind of experimenter's notebook, right?"

"Er – yeah," said Harry quickly.

"I only ever caught a glimpse of the collection at the Library of Congress," said Altrichter, leafing through it curiously. "Three of them, and the Muggles decided to put them in a cleanroom behind glass," she said, evidently amused. "Imagine if they found out that they're decay-resistant. Very well, Mister Potter, let's get you your notebook."

They returned to the front desk, and Altrichter ushered Harry forward. He checked out the two books he was carrying and scurried out under the again-icy glare of Madam Pince.

He waited a minute in the corridor before Altrichter came striding out of the library's double doors.

"Here you are, Mister Potter. Do you know how long you'll be needing it?"

"No," said Harry, taking the offered book. "Sorry," he added, looking at her apprehensively. "Do you need it back right away?"

"No, no," said Altrichter. "But I did check it out under my name, so naturally –"

"I should return it to you," said Harry.

"Yes. Well, goodnight Mister Potter. I'll see you on Wednesday," she said, smiling yet again before striding off into the now dark corridor.

It was just past eleven by the time Harry got back to the common room. He hadn't bothered to put the books in his bag, and stepped over the threshold carrying the small stack.

The common room was empty, as he had been expecting, except for Ron and Hermione, who were seated in front of the fire.

"Hey," said Ron, as he approached the fireplace.

"Harry!" said Hermione. She stood up and was about to embrace him when she stopped short.

"Wh–what happened?" she said, reaching out a hand to his shoulder.

"Huh? Oh," said Harry. She was fingering the tattered and charred edges of his mantle and sleeves. "Uh, Dumbledore."

"_What?_" she demanded.

"Whoa," said Ron. "So he really was teaching you how to duel?"

"Er, not really," said Harry, setting his books down on the table. "We were just practicing some spells."

"What, on yourself?" said Hermione, still aghast.

"No, well, kind of –" said Harry. "I'm fine, Hermione, all limbs still on, see?"

She began brushing him off to survey the damage.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me. You didn't think to take off your robes?"

"Well, I guess not –"

"You're lucky Mrs. Weasley's a traditionalist. She decided to be so charitable as to teach me and Ginny some . . . _housekeeping_ spells," Hermione sniffed. "Here, take those off and sit down. Oh, you have books –!"

She went over to examine the stack on the table.

"_Spellshot_? Read it back in third year, pretty interesting, but way too dependent on anecdotes – it's almost like fiction. _The Semi-Authoritative Discourse on Wand Mechanics _– that one's got some really good explanations about somatic theory. Oh _my –_" She let out an astonished gasp. "Harry, you've got a _Dictatus?_"

"A what?" asked Ron.

"A _Dictatus Artificum_ – they're really rare," said Hermione.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Er, what is it, exactly, Hermione? I just got it because, uh –" He hesitated. "Because Dumbledore recommended it."

"It's kind of like an elaborate notebook," said Hermione, gently opening the book. "Really successful artisans keep them as records of their work. They're like a mix of autobiography, reference, and lab notes, so they're usually well-enchanted against decay. Each one typically has two or more authors . . ."

"Doesn't look a thing like my notes," Ron snorted, looking over her shoulder at the pages, filled with meticulously scribed text and illustrations.

"You don't _take_ notes, Ron," said Hermione.

"It's not even in English," said Harry, disappointed. Actually, he didn't recognize the language at all.

"Well not really," said Hermione concernedly. "It's in Old English. This could be a bit of a bother – but I would _really _like to study it. Oh!"

Hermione gasped again. As they watched, the Old English lettering swam in front of their eyes, and large blotches of ink appeared on the page at random. These spatters of ink seemed to run for a moment, before shrinking again. Before their eyes, the gibberish was replaced with words they understood, and Harry found himself looking at what appeared to be a discourse on salamander legs.

"Fancy," said Ron.

"_Amazing,_" said Hermione. "Then again, it does make sense, since the authors of _Dictati _meant for their work to survive them. I knew Hogwarts had one, but I thought it was in the Restricted Section."

"It _was_," admitted Harry. "I just got it because of Dumbledore," he added quickly.

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, biting her lip. "If it isn't too much trouble, could I borrow it when you're done? I've always wanted to read it for myself . . ."

"Of course," said Harry, waving his hand.

Hermione's delighted smile caused both Harry and Ron to crack grins themselves. They settled around the fireplace once more, and Hermione set about trying to un-singe Harry's robes as they chatted the night away.

* * *

The next day had been set aside by Katie Bell for Quidditch tryouts. Harry roused Ron early and the two of them trudged down for breakfast.

"Man," said Ron over a mug of pumpkin juice, "this paper's never got anything good." He held up the front page of the Daily Prophet for Harry to see. The headline read 'DEATH EATER WALKS FREE' above a scowling image of Lucius Malfoy.

"He's broken out of Azkaban then, has he?" said Harry. Ron snorted.

"Getting jaded, mate?" he said, putting he paper down and reaching for the toast rack.

"Just doesn't surprise me anymore," said Harry. "Though, it's probably not a bad idea to prepare for the worst."

"Mmm," said Ron. "Right. How about this, then: if I don't make the team, just tell everyone I fell off my broom and died, and I'll just go hide in the Forbidden Forest for the rest of my life."

"No dice," said Harry. "Hermione would kill me."

"Naw, she'll be too heartbroken. Who wouldn't?" said Ron, flexing his muscles. "You could just let her cry on your shoulder for a bit."

"I'll be too busy consoling Malfoy," said Harry. They shared a smirk as they stood up and began the trek to the pitch.

Shortly afterward, Harry circled idly high above the pitch. There hadn't been anyone competing for the Seeker position, so Katie had just turned loose a Snitch for him to chase around while she conducted tryouts for all the other positions.

After catching it several times in succession, he had grown bored of it, and flew lazily behind it in a giant circle above the field.

The Snitch seemed to take an affront to his feigned apathy, and hovered such that it was almost perched on the end of his broomstick like a hummingbird. Or a Golden Snidget, Harry reminded himself. He reached out and caught it easily.

"Harry!" came a voice from below him. Ginny Weasley was ascending towards him. He waved.

"I made Chaser," she said once she was hovering parallel to him.

"Nice," said Harry, flinging the Snitch back up into the air. "You didn't want to try out for Seeker?"

"As if I'd stand a chance," said Ginny, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"What's that?" asked Harry.

"Hermione's birthday next week," said Ginny. "I was thinking of having a little party, since she's coming of age and all."

Harry considered this. They typically celebrated Ron's and Hermione's birthdays with a small mail-ordered present in the morning before breakfast. He hadn't thought about coming of age.

Besides, was this really the time for a party?

. . . Screw it.

"Yeah, sure thing, Ginny. What do you need me to do?"

"Nothing right now, I haven't finished planning yet. Nothing too extravagant, of course. Just a bit of a distraction."

A distraction would be nice, Harry decided. He and Ginny remained stationary over the pitch, watching the Beaters try out in contemplative, amicable silence.

"Hey," she said a few minutes later. "Ron's up. Let's go."

Harry nodded and followed her back down towards the goal posts.

* * *

The next few days passed by in a blur of homework and essays, and Harry found himself awake late almost every night to get it done. It was a very good thing that both he and Ron had retained their positions on the Quidditch team, because it was certainly the only bit of good news they'd had the entire week.

On Wednesday afternoon, he approached the Fat Lady alone, and after giving her the password (_Ode to – er . . . Ode to the Doxy Queen . . . ?_), he entered the portrait hole. After throwing his books onto his bed, he stopped in the bathroom to splash water into his face. It had been a long day.

Harry made his way back down the stairs to the Gryffindor common room. Reaching the bottom, he was surprised to find none other than Luna Lovegood sitting cross-legged on a chair by the fireplace. He thought he was seeing things, but a faraway smile and a dreamy 'Hello Harry' changed his mind.

"Luna, what are you doing here? How did you get the password?"

"I guessed," she said cryptically.

"Wait, what do you mean you guessed?" he asked, perplexed. "On the first try?"

"No," said Luna vaguely. Seeing his confusion, she smiled patiently and leaned forward to explain.

"The Fat Lady is in charge of coming up with passwords, but she's just a portrait, you see? Her personality was embedded into the ink, so the portrait as a whole to obey a formula."

"So . . . you can just predict what she's going to pick as the password? That doesn't seem very safe –" said Harry, but Luna shook her head.

"It wasn't that simple. While doing my Charms homework, I overheard her talking to Sir Cadogan and the three chimney sweeps down on the third floor corridor. Sir Cadogan was telling them about the grand adventures that he had when he was a Knight of Elaine, and while I was listening in, I learned that the Fat Lady is enamored by history, especially when it comes to Herbology."

"Wait, what does 'Ode to the Doxy Queen' have to do with Herbology?" asked Harry, quickly becoming lost.

"Well, it's pretty well known because of its unusual metric, and it contains a lot of symbolism that ties it closely to underground revolutionary culture, but the song was _originally_ written to drive Nargles away from orchards."

"Luna, how does that have _anything_ to do with what you were saying before?"

"Saint Margaret Pilftheter wrote it, didn't she? She was the Grandmaster Apothecary for the Order of Elaine in the seventeenth century."

"So?"

"Well, I knew the new password was due in two days, so I went to Professor Sprout's office to ask her about the lesson from the day before. While I was there, I asked the One-Legged Abbot's portrait to have a conversation with the Fat Lady in the meantime, to make sure she had seventeenth century Herbology on her mind, which narrowed down the number of guesses I'd have to make. And just now, I struck up a conversation with her, and slipped in all of my guesses. Ten minutes in, we got to the topic of Saint Pilftheter, and when I mentioned 'Ode to the Doxy Queen,' she opened right up."

Harry was speechless for a moment.

"That shouldn't work," he said weakly, shaking his head in disbelief. "What were the other guesses?"

"Well, there were a lot of them," she admitted. "I was pretty sure about 'Snaggletooth Creeper' and 'Man-Eating Moss'. 'Ode to the Doxy Queen' didn't come until later in the list."

Frustrated, Harry dropped the subject.

"Why did you need to get into Gryffindor Tower anyway?"

"Well," she said softly, "there are times when I feel more welcome in your company than in my common room, so I thought that a visit would be enjoyable."

Harry sucked in his breath sharply at this unexpected revelation. He'd never gotten used to Luna's ability to simply state uncomfortable truths, but that certainly didn't stop the feeling of anger creeping up his spine. She'd told him about her housemates' behavior at the end of last term, and it was painful to hear her mention it as though it were simply a fact of life.

"Also, I heard Ginny was planning a birthday party for Hermione, and I thought it would be nice to help."

"Of course, Luna," he said firmly. "You're always welcome here. We're your friends, after all."

He found himself relieved when a smile spread across her face.

"Thank you Harry," she said, "You are a very kind person."

"No problem?" said Harry, looking around. "Well, I'm not sure when Ginny will be back from class. I think she has Transfiguration on Wednesdays."

At that moment, the portrait swung open.

"Luna!" came Ginny's voice. She was followed through the portrait hole by several other Gryffindor fifth years bearing the recent scars of china plate-to-raccoon Transfiguration.

"I was about to go looking for you," she said, beckoning Luna over. "Come on, I've got plans."

Luna waved Harry goodbye and skipped up the girls' staircase after Ginny.

* * *

The majority of Hermione's birthday passed the same as any other. He and Ron had put in a mail order for a miniature Hogwarts Globe. It was one of the more tame items in Fred and George's inventory, merely changing its appearance to reflect the time of year – flowers in the spring, green grass in summer, swirling leaves in autumn, and snowcapped turrets in the winter. They'd given it to her, as tradition dictated, during the walk to breakfast.

It was now half past five in the afternoon, and Harry was sitting alone in the Gryffindor common room, with the _Dictatus Artificum_ open on his lap. He'd decided to take the opportunity to study, as Ron had scheduled a grudge chess match against Seamus, and Hermione had gone off to Professor Vector's office hours.

Unfortunately, he hadn't learned much that piqued his curiosity. The portion of the book he'd decided to open to at random was dedicated to practical uses of human blood in protective warding. While interesting, he'd been hoping for something more closely related to wands or visions or . . . what was he even looking for, anyway?

"Hey Harry," called Ginny from the bottom of the stairwell. "Could you and Luna head down to the kitchen and see if they can make you guys a cake?"

"Why can't I go?" complained Ron, looking up from his Defense essay.

"Because Harry's better acquainted with Dobby, and I need you to help me carry in the drinks," said Ginny.

"Sure thing," said Harry, standing up. Leaving his books with his bag, he stepped out of the portrait hole after Luna.

"It sounds like it will be fun," said Luna. "We don't have many parties in Ravenclaw, and they're not much fun to begin with. I suppose it would be more enjoyable with friends there."

"We'll make a good time of it," assured Harry.

They reached the kitchen shortly, and when Harry reached up to tickle the pear into a doorknob, Luna laughed delightedly.

"That's funny!" she exclaimed. She reached out a hand and tickled an apple on the right side of the portrait. Before their eyes, the apple turned into a door knocker.

"Huh," said Harry, pulling open the portrait. "Didn't think about that."

At once, a bundle of cloth rammed into his shin, and he almost tripped and fell flat on his face.

"Harry Potter, sir!" came a voice from his leg.

"Dobby!" said Harry, wincing. "How are you?"

"Dobby is good, sir! Dobby was wondering if he will see Harry Potter soon!" He unhinged himself from Harry's knee and dropped into a bow.

"Ah, and there's the friend of Mudbloods and sneaks," came a voice Harry knew all too well. "Why must Kreacher put up with this, what with Kreacher stripped of his house and home, the final insult –"

"Kreacher will not speak of Harry Potter in those words!" shouted Dobby heatedly, balling up his fists.

Harry was about to intervene when Luna spoke up.

"Don't worry, Dobby," she said. "Kreacher is using his animosity against Harry and his friends as a coping mechanism, in order to minimize the trauma of being removed from his house of service. He's been there his entire life, after all, and it is easier for him to handle the change if he can keep his feet on some kind of familiar ground, like insulting Muggle-borns and half-bloods."

This abruptness brought a moment of hesitation before anyone spoke.

"The childish one is perceptive," said Kreacher, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "She would have made a useful slave, oh but how unnatural she is! And with such large eyes! Mistress would have her flayed just for looking . . ." With a dirty parting glare, Kreacher slunk off to another corner of the kitchen.

Harry looked around and saw the kitchen mostly empty, save for a few house elves that were pulling stacks of vegetables and spices from the cupboards.

"Where is everybody?" he asked Dobby.

"They's all on working parties," said the house elf. "They's coming back soon to cook dinner. What can Dobby do for Harry Potter and Miss Loony?"

"Well, Dobby, you remember Hermione?" asked Harry as Dobby led them to a sitting area.

"Yes, sir!" said Dobby, nodding his head enthusiastically. "Miss Hermy's knitting has become much much better! Dobby has this one hat now with a fuzzy ball, and Dobby is wondering if maybe she will be making socks with them too!"

Harry chuckled and sat down on a couch.

"I'll be sure to let her know," he said.

"And Halloween's next month, too" said Luna, electing to perch on Harry's armrest instead of the seat beside him. "Would you like a costume, Dobby?"

"Oh, no, Miss Loony," said Dobby, his eyes widening. "Dobby couldn't ask –"

"It will be fun!" Luna insisted, "We'll have matching outfits."

Dobby's face contorted and Harry quickly recognized that he was about to burst into grateful tears, and he butted in.

"It's settled then!" he said, reaching over and giving the house elf a proportionately-sized thump on the back. "We've all got to have a little fun these days, right?"

Dobby nodded his head vigorously and wiped his eyes.

"Thank yous Miss Loony, and Harry Potter, sir! What can Dobby be doing for Miss Hermy today?"

"Well," said Harry, "today is Hermione's birthday, and we were wondering if you could make us a cake."

Dobby brightened up at once.

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby will make a cake for Miss Hermy! Will yous be needing it right away?"

"Oh, no," said Harry, noting that house elves were beginning to trickle into the kitchen from unseen entrances. "What's a good time, Luna? Did Ginny tell you?"

"Half past eight should be good," said Luna.

Dobby swept himself into a low bow, and sped off to help the other house elves prepare the evening meal.

"How did you know Dobby, Luna?" asked Harry as they stepped out of the kitchen and began the walk back to Gryffindor tower.

"Oh, I've met him several times before," said Luna. "He's sometimes on the Ravenclaw working party, you know. Well, when he's not cleaning Gryffindor tower alone anyway. I offered to give him a hand, but he'd always refuse."

"That's very thoughtful of you," said Harry.

She simply smiled back at him and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

Harry and Ron made sure that they and Hermione were the last ones back to the Common Room. Harry accomplished this goal by eating slower. Ron did the same by simply eating more.

Midway through dinner, a huge hand landed with a thump on Harry's shoulder, and judging from the surprised grunt on his other side, the same had happened to Ron.

"'Ey now!" said Hagrid jovially as Harry choked down the food he'd been chewing. "What's the big idea, eh? Yeh haven' bin down ter visit me at all this term!"

"Sorry Hagrid," said Harry, gasping for air.

"We've been a bit busy," said Hermione sheepishly. "N.E.W.T. classes and all."

"Ah, I'm jokin' – 'course it's all righ'. An' happy birthday ter you, young lady!" he said, sidling over to Hermione.

"Thanks, Hagrid," she said, smiling broadly. She turned in her seat to give the half-giant a hug.

"I got yeh a present, o' course," said Hagrid, pulling something out of his coat. "There y'are, special-made, jus' for today. Yeh've come of age, after all," he said.

Harry looked over, expecting one of Hagrid's infamous rock cakes, but instead found himself looking at a whittled wooden figurine of a quill resting inside an inkwell.

"Thank you Hagrid, it's beautiful!" said Hermione in awe.

"I had a job keepin' Fang off it fer some reason, while I was workin' on it," said Hagrid. "But it's a tradition, yeh know, in wizardin' families. On yer comin'-of-age, yeh get a presen' o' wood. An' then gold when yer married, and plat'num fer Mastery, an' coal if yer bad for Chris'mas. Or summat like that. I always get these things mixed up."

"That's right, I think," said Ron. "I _did_ get coal once, but it was from Fred and George."

"Anyway, I figured since yeh've got Muggle parents, yeh wouldn't be gettin' anythin' like that, so . . ."

"I appreciate it, Hagrid," she said, smiling up at him again.

Hagrid's appearance had served well, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione emerged onto the Fat Lady's corridor much later than normal.

Upon walking in, they were greeted by the sight of the majority of the Gryffindors waiting for them in a circle in the middle of the common room.

"Happy birthday, Hermione!" rang out in chorus, and Harry and Ron pushed a shocked Hermione forward to the waiting crowd.

"But – what? Harry, you didn't tell me!" she protested, as she was maneuvered towards a cake that sat on the coffee table.

"Part of the fun," said Harry, grinning.

"Besides," said Ron, "You would've stopped me and Ginny from smuggling in all this Butterbeer."

"You _what_?" said Hermione, but she was already in front of the cake.

Harry couldn't help but laugh. Dobby had certainly outdone himself. The cake depicted the Gryffindor lion on a scarlet background, and icing spelled the words 'Happy Birthday Miss Hermy' in glittering gold.

"You shouldn't have –" said Hermione weakly.

"The cake was all Dobby," said Harry, with his hand on her shoulder. "You've gotta admit, he has a knack for this sort of thing."

"Hey, blow out the candles already! We want sugar!" called Seamus from the back of the crowd.

"Stuff it!" Ron shouted back.

There was a cheer as Hermione, still apparently unbelieving, took several breaths to blow out the candles. Ron reached under the table and hauled out wooden crates of Butterbeer, and for a good while, the common room was filled with Gryffindors lounging in general mirth.

Sitting at the foot of a couch with Ron, Dean, and Seamus behind him, Harry surveyed the room. Truth be told, he hadn't been well-acquainted with many of the younger Gryffindors – in fact, since the different years never shared any classes, there hadn't ever really been an occasion to bond with any of them.

However, as he watched his housemates settle into the relaxed environment of the common room, he was gripped by a strong sense of belonging. Even Luna was having a good time, laughing along with a small circle of fourth years girls.

As the night went on, their housemates eventually began retiring to their rooms, or began pulling out homework. Somehow they had all managed to finish the cake, along with most of the Butterbeer. Harry had gotten up at some point to collect the empty bottles and put them in crates by the portrait hole.

Eventually, Luna took her leave, but not before embracing a surprised Hermione, who stood awkwardly for a moment before hugging her back. She waved to Harry and Ron as well, before stepping out of the portrait hole.

"Mrrbl," said Ron.

"What?" said Harry.

"Tired," replied Ron, stretching out. "All this eating and lifting Butterbeer crates. Takes a whole lot out of you, man."

Harry snorted.

"Go to bed," he said, pushing Ron off the arm of the couch. "Don't want you straining your tender muscles before our first Quidditch match."

"Hah!" said Ron, stretching yet again. "As if Hufflepuff could get a Quaffle past this." He puffed out his chest.

"At this rate they might just go for a Bludger to your head," said Harry, rolling his eyes.

"Shows what you know," said Ron. "You should be swooning over this too."

Harry punched him in the side.

"Ow! Just kidding, mate. Wake me up for breakfast," he said, rubbing his stomach. "Night Hermione!" he added, heading towards the stairs.

"Good night, Ron," she called after him from the fireplace, where she was seated with Parvati and Lavender. Seeing Harry alone, she excused herself to join him.

"So, you and Ron getting engaged?" she teased, falling onto the couch beside him.

"As if," Harry snorted. "You know how obsessed he is with Malfoy. And wasn't there a time when you and Luna didn't get along?"

"That seems so long ago, doesn't it?" said Hermione, bringing her feet up onto the couch and wrapping her arms around her knees. "She really does grow on you, I guess."

They sat for another minute while Harry sipped his Butterbeer.

"Thanks," said Hermione, still hugging her legs. "For the party, I mean."

"It was Ginny who planned it," said Harry. "I didn't do much – I just asked Dobby for the cake."

"Oh right, I have to give Dobby something in return," she said, thinking.

"Well he did mention wanting socks with fuzzy balls on the end," said Harry, grinning slyly.

"He liked the hat, then?" said Hermione, giggling slightly. "That one was an accidental knot that I ended up turning into a fuzzy ball in the hopes that no one would notice."

Harry mulled over the last few sips of Butterbeer left in the bottle. The firelight sparkled in the swirling liquid.

"It's so weird," said Hermione after another minute.

"What's that?" asked Harry.

"If you look at the common room, it's like there's not even a war going on outside," said Hermione. "We were just . . . partying, and having a good time. I didn't even scold Ron about the Butterbeer."

"What, would you rather we huddle in the dungeons?" asked Harry, throwing the last of the Butterbeer to the back of his throat.

"Well, no," said Hermione. "I'm just saying, isn't it kind of weird to be celebrating when people are disappearing every day, and the Prophet keeps reporting about Dementors like they're some kind of weather phenomenon?"

"No," said Harry firmly. Hermione looked at him interestedly.

"What makes you say that?" she asked.

"Well, it's kind of how I justified it in my head, but I didn't really think about it until tonight," said Harry. "It's a nice distraction from everything we have to deal with, and I thought it'd be good to take some of the load off our shoulders, even though it's just for a night. But I figured out it goes deeper than that."

"Do tell," said Hermione, putting a throw pillow over her knees to rest her head.

"Well, how often do you get sixteen year old students fighting and dying in a war?" said Harry. "I think we've had to grow up way too fast, and soon, we'll have to give up the rest of our – well – our childhood to fight Voldemort, or we won't have a future at all. It's really like he's taking it all away from us.

"I finally got it while I was sitting here and watching everyone, especially Luna and all the underclassmen. Voldemort _wants_ us to be miserable. He wants us to feel alone, and in danger all the time.

"But if we somehow – well – take back as much as we can – well, I mean, if we can find some way to laugh, and be happy, in the middle of all this death and misery . . . Well it's kind of like shoving it in his face, isn't it? It's kind of like . . . fighting back, in its own way. What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?" Harry cut off his rambling at the look that Hermione was giving him. It was some mixture of amusement and satisfaction.

"Nothing," she said, smiling at him. "But you're right. You remember what Dumbledore said at the end of fourth year? '_Lord Voldemort's gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust.'_"

"How do you even remember that?" asked Harry incredulously.

"Oh, I don't know, I have this knack for paying attention," said Hermione playfully.

"Ugh, not you too," moaned Harry. "What's gotten into you and Ron?"

"Sorry, coping with the stress, you know, et cetera," she laughed softly. She sidled up next to him to use his side as a back rest.

"So, what are you fighting for?" she asked.

"I . . . what?"

"What are you fighting for?" she repeated, turning her head towards him. "You know, the war going on outside and all?"

"Oh."

Harry mulled over the question in his head, wondering why he'd never thought about it seriously before. There was the prophecy, of course, but he had a feeling that that wasn't what she'd had in mind. Also, he was mildly surprised to note that even the '_he killed my parents!_' catchphrase that he'd been using the past few years didn't quite cut it anymore.

When he found the answer, he was surprised at how painfully obvious it was.

"This," he said, raising a hand to indicate the common room and empty Butterbeers.

"Hm?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"This," he repeated. "Kids being kids. People living like they were meant to, not like there's some psychotic madman out to kill them the moment they step outside the castle. We should be worrying about getting good grades, or duking out our rivalry with the Slytherins, or going through complicated romantic relationships.

"Instead, we're worrying about things like the end of the world as we know it, and looking for our friends' disappearances in the newspaper. No one should have to have all of that on their mind every day. That's why I have to fight – I have to win, so that everyone who comes after us can live for the sake of living."

"Why Harry, that's quite possibly the most grown-up thing you've said in my presence," said Hermione teasingly.

"Also: butts," quipped Harry.

Hermione responded with an elbow to his stomach.

"Sorry, sorry," said Harry, edging away slightly.

"But really, Harry, I believe you," she continued. ". . . And I'm glad."

Harry placed an arm around her and the two of them returned to their silent vigil over the common room.

It was some time later when Harry noticed that Hermione's breathing had slowed down.

"Hermione?" he asked, shaking his arm a bit.

"Mmm?" she replied sleepily.

"You should head up to bed," he said.

"Hmm," she said noncommittally.

Another minute of silence passed.

"There's something you're not telling me," she said, finally.

"About what?" asked Harry, confused.

"Lessons with Dumbledore," said Hermione, still in her sleepy voice. "There's something wrong with those lessons, and you're not telling me."

"What? Of course not," said Harry.

"Hmph," said Hermione, bringing her knees up to her chest again. "Known you too long. Know you're not telling everything."

Harry's silence all but confirmed her suspicions.

"Will you tell me?" she asked again.

"Later," Harry decided. "Not tonight. But I'll tell you everything. And Ron. He deserves to hear it too."

"Mmm."

* * *

Just after midnight, the last third year in the common room rolled up her Astronomy charts and looked up from the table. She'd been working on the assignment throughout the whole party, but she, too, had enjoyed the escape from the gloomy atmosphere that threatened to swallow the country.

For a few short hours, she had even forgotten that there was a Dark Lord, and she did not even worry for her father, who had been taken to St. Mungo's not five days before. She'd laughed at Dennis Creevey's jokes, and swatted away her housemates' hands when they tried to steal nibbles of her cake while she was engrossed in the star charts. She'd even allowed one of her dorm mates to braid her hair while she worked.

Maybe she had found something worth fighting for, after all.

Standing, she made her way over to the other end of the common room. On the way, she grabbed the blanket off one of the loveseats in front of the fire.

Reaching the other end of the room, she took the blanket and placed it around the sleeping figures of two of the most well-known students at Hogwarts, taking care to tuck it behind the boy's shoulder and the girl's knee so that it would not come loose in the night.

Shouldering her bag, she tiptoed up the stairs, her mind for now at peace.

* * *

Next chapter: ashes, ashes, we all fall . . .

**About this story: **_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ and its sequel take place after _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. They are meant to be read in place of _Half-Blood Prince_ and _Deathly Hallows. If you don't like it . . . how did you even _get _this far anyway? Couldn't you just stop reading? Why are you even paying attention to this note?_

_Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders_ is planned to take place in two parts, with sixteen planned chapters in Part I, five planned chapters in the Interlude (_In the Case of Hermione Jean Granger_), and approximately fourteen chapters in Part II.

Thanks for reading!


	12. Ch12: All That Glisters

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and things belong to J.K. Rowling. She was not involved in the making of this fan fiction, but some . . . actually_ rather a lot of text in this piece of fan fiction has been directly quoted from her books. _Some (tiny bits of) material also borrowed from: d20 system and Dragon Age.

**Author's Note (31 March 2011): **Chapter pulled offline for rewriting.

**Author's Note (30 March 2011): **After some calculations, we figured out that we screwed up the dates. The _Dictatus_ quote from Chapter 11 was actually supposed to be from 1120 AD, and at this time it would have been written in Old English, not Middle English. Also, rewrites and redactions still in progress for Chapters 1-7, and a partial changelog is found at the very end of this chapter so you won't have to reread anything.

A lot of different things happen in this chapter. Fair warning.

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I

Chapter Twelve

"All That Glisters"

The Primary Author has decided to rewrite this chapter, because it did not live up to his expectations. Please disregard our last.

Thanks,

The Caffe Espresso Workshop


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